


Aegon's High Hill Academy

by Caddaren



Series: Where in the World is Rhaegar Targaryen? [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, BDSM, Bad Parenting, Car Accidents, Centered around the Stark children, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hook-Up, Inappropriate use of titles in general tbh, Kink Negotiation, Lots of it, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Recreational Drug Use, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Stark-centric (ASoIaF), Underage Drinking, Viserys Targaryen Lives, Westeros is the UK i guess, theon "why does everyone want to fuck old men" greyjoy, why does Robb like saying 'My Lord' so much, why isn't Professor Tywin' a tag yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-03-20 00:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 64,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caddaren/pseuds/Caddaren
Summary: Ned and Catelyn Stark struggled to keep their family together through the loss of their youngest son, Rickon. As the one-year anniversary of the accident approaches, they worry. Their surviving children have changed so much in a short year. They're all keeping secrets:Robb wants to drop out of college after his first year. Sansa's golden prince leaves bruises on her arms. Jon got dumped, fell in love with the new girl, then got dumped again. Arya ventures further and further from home until she meets a boy who lives on a scrapyard.And Bran, Bran just wants to walk again.





	1. Down to the river

**Author's Note:**

> (quietly changes the name of this in the night)
> 
> if you say this title three times in the mirror the ghost of Balerion will appear and fucking roast you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wish we were grown  
> And old enough to run away  
> But now I can't leave home  
> I need to stay... 
> 
> Down to the river  
> I'll go south of the river  
> There's crowds in a river  
> Well, fuck it, I'll drown in a river for you, for you." -Raleigh Ritchie

### Arya

 

"If you don't hurry, we'll be late." Sansa fixed her hair in the large mirror over their bathroom sink. Arya wished their winter home was as large as Winterfell, for she wouldn't have to listen to her older sister at all times. On the old historic grounds, everyone had their own space and Arya could escape to the old, uninhabited, technically restricted, historical areas. Yelling from one side of the manor to the other, or finding someone within the maze of hallways and dusty rooms was near impossible given the size of the building and its thick stone walls.

Comparatively, their modest house in King's Landing barely held a candle. Arya still hated the heat of the south after all these years and sounds carried too far through the thin walls for many secrets. Even Sansa admitted to hating their close summer quarters. It forced them to share a bathroom, for heaven's sake.

Arya knocked her arm into Sansa's, interrupting her attempt to finish her intricate hair. Sansa's reflection scowled and Arya smiled.

"Brat." Sansa fled the bathroom. Arya listened to her stomp down the stairs and then caught her own eyes in the mirror.

There were bags under her eyes. Catelyn would mention them, would wonder about her late-night habits. Arya had stayed up reading. More often than not, Arya was up late and thus woke up a bit late in the morning. Sansa and Jon had already eaten breakfast, from the sound of it.

She returned to her room to grab her shovel her homework and notebooks into her bag, then vaulted down the stairs.

"Slow down, Arya!" Catelyn called, still in the foyer adjacent to the kitchen. Arya could hear the echoes of an official sounding conversation. She sat at the round kitchen counter and stuffed the plate of food into her face, opposite to Bran.

"Finished with The Doom yet?" Bran asked. There was a bit of egg near his nose. Arya didn't tell him.

"No, but I'm close. The Targaryen's just fled the giant eruption."

"Do you think the prophecy is entirely accurate?"

"It's history, Bran," Arya said.

"The Targaryen dragons all died out a thousand years ago," their mother supplied, hanging up her phone as she moved into the kitchen. She presented them both with their generous lunch money for the day along with a dry kiss to the forehead. "Stop shovelling, dear."

"I'm running behind," Arya replied. She took a bite of toast and a long slurp of luke-warm tea. Bran smirked and Arya glared at him. Bran was never late, despite the chair. He lived on the ground floor next to their parent's study and got his own bathroom, the knob . He wiped a napkin over his lips then moved away from the table and down the hall to his bedroom.

Jon appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in his usual dark clothes. He saw her for the first time that day and smiled, pointing at his bun. "Same hair!" he mussed her fringe a bit and she swatted at him.

"Fuck off!"

"Language," Catelyn said, but it lacked any real heat. She was busy packing her bag for the day and had her back turned. Jon flipped Arya off and then they traded scrunched up faces.

"Arya, if you're not going to eat anymore you should go brush your teeth," her mother said, somehow knowing she hadn't touched her egg in a few minutes. She scooped the last bit into her mouth then tunnelled up the stairs, almost on all fours.

"Jon, please make sure the car is clean from now on," she heard Catelyn say. She couldn't hear Jon's reply, mouth already full of toothpaste. She met her own eyes again. Still the dark circles. She was so tired, no matter how much she slept. Then she couldn't sleep at night, no matter how long she laid there.

She spat and wiped her face, then rushed back to the stairs. She paused in the hallway, slowed by the sight of sunlight in Rickon's room. His room was more often dark. Empty. Her own door perch directly across from his. At first, she had tried closing the door. It hadn't helped, for then everyone would pause in passing. We can't help it, she thought. They wished Rickon to still be here, still living in that room. The sight of the closed door forced a pause. What if opened, Rickon was right on the other side? Arya had seen her mother standing in that doorway too many times to count in the weeks, months, following last November. Arya herself had stood there, remembering.

The winter holiday had been absolutely awful, Sansa had cried often and Arya could hear it through the walls. Both she and Jon could. Arya could hear her parents cry too, and they could hear her no doubt. Arya hated this house. It was only last summer when she could be free of grief. Could be free of this empty doorway.

"Arya, we're gonna be late!" Sansa cried, her voice carrying up the stairs. Startled out of her thoughts, Arya tumbled down the stairs and only paused to grab her bag and her jacket.

"Mom, I'm going to Joffrey's this afternoon," Sansa said, though she was already out the door. Jon was following behind, in a heated conversation about the last Star Prince movie with Bran while he pushed the chair.

"Home by 7:00," Catelyn said, giving all her children last hugs as they passed out the door. Their father was already out of the house, dealing with some sort of crisis or another at one of the northernmost manufacturing plants.

"I know!" Sansa called back, securing her place in the front seat of the van. Bran was already riding his ramp up to the back. Arya hopped in the back with him, closed the door, and they were off.

Jon was not a bad driver in any respect, but Arya did wish he drove a little faster. He just had good reason to be extra careful.

"I can't believe you're still dating Joffrey," Arya said. Sansa didn't even look at her from the front seat. Jon groaned. They had done this argument hundreds of times before.

"Do you think it was cowardly for the Targaryen's to flee the Doom?" said Bran.

"Not now, Bran," said Arya, the only one who wished to persist. Bran frowned but otherwise went silent. Jon was the only one who met her eyes, in the mirror. His brows furrowed, making him look sad for her sake.

"It's too early for this-"

"I just don't understand it!"

"It's none of your business!" Sansa yelled.

Arya settled back in her seat and watched out the window instead. It was only a few more minutes commute anyway.

### Sansa

 

They arrived at school just in time for the first bell to beckon them into a bustle. She said goodbye and left her siblings behind. Everyone around them in the hallways was on the move. Sansa smiled at a few of her friends on her way to her locker but didn't stop and chat.

She shed her full bag and light jacket. Joffrey was leaning against the wall of lockers next to her in the next moment.

"You coming over tonight?"

"Good morning," she said pointedly, but smiled. "My mom said yes. Same curfew though."

He scoffed. "What are we, children? When are you going to tell them you're an adult?" Joffrey was, if nothing else, very good at getting his way.

"My parents are much more traditional than yours," she said. It was the nicest way she could think of saying "my parents punish me for my actions" because that in its entirety would spark outrage.

"Uptight, more like," he said, but it was not the worst thing he had said about her parents, so she didn't counter it.

"But hey, I'm coming over," she reiterated.

Joffrey moved closer, a sweet smile on his lips. "We gonna have some fun then?" His hand was already rubbing up and down her arm.

Sansa giggled and brushed his fingers away. "Joffrey stop." The second bell rang shortly before he could retort. He frowned.

"I'll see you at lunch," he said. She nodded and leaned forward for a kiss, but he merely left. Refusing to linger on it, she moved to her first class.

'Mr. Davos' Seaworth led an invigorating lesson on their assigned chapters in the story of Durran and Elenei. She was told to be the daughter of the sea god and the goddess of the wind, a woman overpowering in nature. Durran Godsgrief loved her, and though her divine parents forbade their love, they married despite them. With each chapter, Sansa grew more and more in love with them both.

The narrator seemed quite infatuated with them, and Sansa was working on an essay arguing against his reliability. It was a new concept for her reading habits, one that had her turning a critical eye to the real-life stories she heard. Still, she loved the stormy romance of the book and it was no chore to write about it. Sansa often liked to read such old, classic texts, and more than once her father mentioned the potential in such a pursuit. She had a knack for literary analysis that could be nursed, as Mr Davos often reminded her.

When they split off into individual work, Mr Davos called them one by one to his seat to return their last papers. Sansa could barely remember which essay he was returning, as in advanced literature they moved quickly. A bit of class passed, students were called up one by one until finally, Mr Davos called Sansa's name.

She stood next to his desk and he handed her the stapled stack of paper. It was still crisp but now littered with his short, blocky handwriting in fine, red pen. "You have some very interesting ideas. I would, however, return to your original text." He said politely. She peeked at the final grade on the last page, paled, and nodded.

"Would you like to talk... after school? I know this time of year..." He petered off, realizing they were both just staring at each other, stiff and utterly terrified. Sansa shook her head quietly before returning to her seat.

Shit, she thought, crumpling the essay in her hand. On top of her recent performance in math, this would really kick her grades. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Ignoring it in favour of reading through the feedback Mr Davos left, Sansa sighed and swore again. It was clear where the quality dropped off. She had run out of time halfway through, had waited too long and fucked around a bit too much. Mr Davos noticed she had not finished the text in time and had run out of time writing the beast itself.

Pressing a hand over her eyes for a moment, Sansa bit back a few tears. It was just stress, nothing more. It would pass.

Glancing back to make sure Mr Davos was busy with someone else and their personal grade nightmare, Sansa slipped her phone out of her pocket and held it next to her thigh.

[Myrcella: hey what's wrong? :'( ]

Sansa was afraid to turn her head and look towards Myrcella's seat. This was one of the few classes they shared together, and Sansa didn't want Myrcella seeing her tears outright even if she was open to commiserating with her boyfriend's sister. Though, it was unfair to define the other girl in such a way, for they had been sweet school friends since they were children, the same way Sansa had grown up knowing Joffrey was her golden prince.

[You: Just a bit of a surprise on my grade is all.]

[You: want to go out at the end of the week? I could use a pick-me-up] And an event that didn't interfere with her newly planned attempts to revitalize her grades. Partying on weekends was better anyway. She could do this.

Sansa turned to Myrcella just in time for her phone to buzz again. The other girl was already making a big thumbs up, smiling all the while. Then, covertly, she began to text rapidly. Sansa's phone didn't vibrate again so it must be for someone else.

[Myrcella: I'm on it! The Huntsman is always lively ;) ]

Sansa smiled. She was already making plans then. [You: You're the best] she wrote, then snuck her phone back into her pocket and refocused on the work in front of her. She wanted to end this semester well. It hadn't started badly, per se, but the past year had been poor compared to her first two. This was her last chance before university to even everything out, her second-to-last semester to prove herself capable.

Sansa began writing, continuing the first draft she already had in the works. If she finished this before the weekend, she could go out guilt-free. There was other work but she worried less about science than she did math because she took easier science courses. History and political sci were, of course, easier than anything else.

You can do this, Sansa, she thought, even as the date weighed heavy on her heart. She sighed, and again, recentered on the paper in front her of. One distraction at a time, it seemed, would be the only way of keeping her mind away from the true ache. I wonder what mother and father have planned... if they have anything planned.

She bit her lip, tapping the eraser of her pencil on the lines in front of her. Neither Ned nor Catelyn Stark were particularly good at expressing their emotions on the matter, least of all to the rest of their children. Sansa doubted anything would be said on the matter, unless her father felt the air too heavy, the need too great.

Durran and Elenei. Elenei never had these sorts of problems, for sure. She simply fell in love with Durran. Still, their love and marriage invoked the wrath of the gods, who destroyed Durran's keep with a massive storm on his wedding night, killing all of his family and guests. Was it noble, then, that Durran declared war on the gods?

Sansa didn't know. Only, the narrator believed it so. Durran persisted in building larger and more formidable castles facing the sea, which the gods destroyed time and time again. The seventh castle he built resisted the storms at Shipbreaker Bay; that castle was Storm's End. A symbol of their love's persistence, of its strength.

### Jon

 

"Tried playing around with a Princess, did you, bastard? Heard you got dumped in third period."

"Fuck off," said Jon, right as Sam said, "Don't mind him.” The Tanner boy didn't seem cowed, instead leaning closer, and Jon wanted a bit to lean back. Something about Karl always gave him the chills.

"Tis better to have loved and lost-" Sam began.

"Than to wank to death in secret," finished Grenn. Karl scowled, for his infatuation with the beautiful Targaryen was about as obvious as his hate for Headmaster Mormont. He stormed off, much to Sam's obvious relief, but left his mark as he wanted to. Jon stared down at his lunch and the white, tiled floor between his feet.

Dany had some choice words for him during their last conversation. It hadn't ended badly but a few of her words cut deep.

 _Devoted_ , she had said about him. _Lost_. Willing to commit to the idea of her but not her in her actuality.

 _Maybe I called her my queen a few times too many,_ he thought, remembering her love-hate for the title. It was only fair. To him such a legacy was inspiring, the name Targaryen so overpowering. She was a literal Princess, one of the last of the Targaryens who had once ruled their entire world. As a bastard, the idea of such _legitimacy_ stunned him.

 _"You should find someone to worship, Jon Snow. Someone who will worship you in turn,"_ Daenerys had said. As a Princess, childhood and namedom were vastly different to her. Only once had she spoke of the burden of being removed from her country for her own safety, of growing up away from her home.

He thought he loved her so completely, and she thought otherwise.

She came from a childhood in Essos and often spoke in poems with him. She had loved to tease him, and he had loved teasing back. Being teased. She had made him feel so light, so loved.

But she was looking for something different. Something more solid, as she said. _Consistent._ Nothing could really change that. It's not like they were destined to be together.

_"I know this is not a good time to do this..." she had said. "November is... tough, and I don't mean to make it harder for you, Jon." Such a beautiful, sad smile on her face. It was hard to hold her gaze after a few minutes._

_“You're right... so this is- are we..?"_

_"Yes. You'll always be very dear to me, Jon, but we want different things. What I want scares you, I think. And what you want... is not enough for me. Do you agree?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Does that mean we can't be friends?" She reached out and held his hand between hers._

_"I want to stay friends," he managed to get out. These kinds of conversations always seemed to move too fast, like his brain was stuck a few minutes behind still processing what was said. He glanced down. Dany had often said she was fond of the 'far-away look' in his 'dark, dreamy eyes'._ One daydream too many it seemed. The compliment had bittered.

_"You're not alone, Jon Snow," she had said, and reminded him on what numbers he could reach her, on which days she was most available. "I still want to see you, and I believe we should go hiking over break as planned."_

Winter break. Dany was sweet to support him. _Always looking after me,_ he thought, but he dreaded the upcoming time off. For better or worse, he based his judgements off the previous year alone. The months following the accident had been some of the worst, and Jon didn't think this time of year would ever not be painful for his family.

 _Almost November._ Jon sighed at the thought. Even just a stray thought had the potential to send Jon to tears, hiding in the boy's locker room during lacrosse practice. It had happened many times, first for Rickon and later for Uncle Benjen. The grief still came sometimes, but less often as more time passed.

Not that he would have rugby practice or preseason to look forward to this year. Jon didn't plan on trying out for the team for the first time since primary school. At first, it hadn't been hard to stay committed without Robb, who was off for his first year of college. Then it was just so hard to do anything after Rickon's death. Making time for his classes **and** rugby was impossible.

So his grades slipped, and he skipped a few too many practices. Mid-season, Drogo cornered him in the locker room and pinned him against a line of lockers. The captain had threatened to beat some sense into him, up close and personal. A lot of 'commitment to the team' and something something 'the honour of us all'.

Jon, admittedly too high to be dealing with that level of confrontation, could really only remember how intense his Captain's eyes were up close and how easily Drogo had picked him up. And, the next day, Headmaster Mormont forbade him to participate until he reclaimed his average, solidifying the whole ordeal. Drogo's 'Disappointed Captain' stare had cut deep when Jon turned in his number.

Still, he saw most of his old teammates fairly regularly. Drogo could be persuaded away from a busy semester at Dragonstone for a pint occasionally, and could never say no to a good dare after a few bong rips. _I should call him,_ Jon thought. Drogo was the exact man he wanted to talk to about Dany, second to perhaps Robb. But Drogo would get him pissed and walk him home afterwards, Robb would try to teach him a lesson with it.

"Anyone up for the Huntsman tonight?" He asked instead, knowing someone would be. A chorus of cheers rang out in response.

"Drinking our misery away?" Sam leaned in and stole a bit of Jon's lunch. Jon had bought too much and his appetite was forgotten, anyway. He would regret not eating in 6th period but wasn't looking that far ahead.

"She was the love of my life, Sam," Jon said.

"That's what you said about Ygritte," said Sam.

"It was true then too," Jon mumbled.

"Snow wants a Queen and a Mistress," said Todder.

"Shut your gob, Toad," said Jon, but there was little heat in it. Dany had said he wanted too much, not enough at the same time. Said they had wanted different things.

"You shoot so high, Snow," Pyp said, "the balls on you."

"She liked me back," Jon reminded him. "She asked _me_ , it's not like I was trailing behind her like a love-struck fan."

"That's exactly what you were doing, just from a distance."

Pyp leaned in and mimed Jon's big, teary eyes. "Them big ol' eyes." Jon pushed his face away.

"She's one of a kind," he said.

"And she's worth more than you are," Grenn said.

"Lord of Light, guys, give his balls a break," Sam tried. The boys let off but left Jon frowning. Idling too much in the coming months would drive him crazy. He needed an outlet without demands for too much of his time. Something he could return to when restless but wouldn't... leave him when he was acting distant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hold onto your pants, that rating's def getting bumped real soon


	2. Foreign Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction to Robb. He's troubled, Sansa's wasted, and Arya's picking fights. The usual.
> 
> "Grippin’  
> Reachin' for somethin’, you're holdin' me down, we're  
> Slippin’  
> Holdin' the leather, then switchin' to Heaven" - Kelsey Lu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes out to kit harrington even though Jon Snow only makes a quick appearance. He's def listening to love songs and/or heavy metal.

### Robb

Robb stared down at his homework. Margaery would be there any minute and it felt like he hadn't made any progress since he sat down an hour ago. _Bloody maths,_ he thought, hating his courses. A business degree required a few classes that were not only difficult but also hard to follow, and taught by professors who didn’t particularly care. Robb had, oddly enough, not really thought about it until he got there. Now he hated going to modules and skipped a time too many.

"I'm gonna fail this class," he said to himself. It was inevitable. He had failed the first exam of the semester and tried to rally in the second. Dragonstone was a prestigious school, and as such Robb had to try. Though he watched many of his classmates call in favours, calling his family for help _was not an option._

If he failed this he would just have to retake it next semester, maybe with a different professor. But this was already his retake to recover from his first year. Summer had been a much-needed relief from most of his classes, but even then his mother had insisted on him taking a summer course or two to get himself back on track. It had worked, he was better off than he was before summer started, but now he was just so _tired_. It hadn't been a proper break.

He was just sick of all the stress. He tried to keep up with his life at school and his life at home. Robb bit his lip, studying the date on his phone's lock screen more than anything.

[Marg: you better let me in this time]

Robb stood and pocketed his phone, already out his bedroom and headed towards the front of his flat. He could see the top of Margaery's head through the small window on the door and smiled as he opened the door.

"You know that will never happen again," he said, speaking of the time he had fallen asleep on accident and she was forced to trick his lock with a credit card.

"Don't act like it was not very much in-character for you. You will nap again," she said it with such a finality he could only laugh.

"Apologies in advance." He took her coat. She gave him a winning smile when he turnt around, and slipped her arms around his shoulders. She smelt of roses. He leant down for a long, slow kiss that she kept smiling through. "What are you so happy about?"

"I get to see you, of course," she said, and he smiled at her. "Still made time for me, right?"

"Yes ma'am," he said, immediate. She smiled even wider.

"Have you eaten? I know I’m a tad early, so do you need to finish anything before we start? Did you shower this morning as I asked?"

Robb withdrew from her embrace. "I did… although I should finish course work due tomorrow. I tried, earlier."

Marg took his hand and led him towards his bedroom. She sat down his bed, leaving him the option of sitting as well. He stood.

"Thank you for telling me,” she said, “But wouldn't make me wait for that.”

"Never," he said.

"So what do you really want to talk about?" She rubbed over his knuckles with her free hands. Her fingers were soft. 

He's failing two classes. He needs to retake even more than that. They won't graduate together. _It's November._

"I don't want to go to uni," he said, instead of all else.

Margaery squeezed his hand but sounded exasperated when she said, "Well I hate to be the one to tell you this, darling, but you're already in uni. One of the best, even."

Robb looked down at the abandoned work on his desk, then down further to his shoes. "I don't belong here. I'm not good at this."

She prodded him with her foot and he frowned.

"I have too many classes to retake. I don't even like the ones I'm in now. I don't fucking want to be here." It felt awful to say to someone and her worse than most. She believed in him, was one of the people who came around and stuck around last year when Rickon died. She and Loras had been some of the first at the hospital to tend to his family in the aftermath, along with the Baratheons and Lannisters, and he would never forget that.

They had shared his bed for a few nights when he couldn't stand being alone and away from his family. He had fallen asleep with his head on her stomach, completely wrapped around her legs.   He would wake when she left the bed each morning and there wasn't a point in lingering after she left, so he starting waking up quite early. Those were long days.

"How long have you been sitting on this one?"

He could feel his shoulders tense with how his shirt pulled. "Start of this semester," he said. Truth be told he hadn't felt right in his first year, leaving his family behind. The 600 km distance always passed in agony from the window of a train, and the ferry to Dragonstone itself was cold, too cold.

"I just want to go home."

Margaery sighed, and he finally sat down next to her. "If you've thought it over, then do it." It wasn't what he expected, but Marg was usually hard to read. He saw what she wanted him to see, for the most part.

"Really?"

"Really," she smiled. "Not everyone needs a higher education. You have plenty of options. "

"My parents are not going to help me."

"Your name affords you many connections even without their help," she said. "And let's not pretend I'm not going to do everything in my power to help you."

"Margaery-"

"I love you, Robb Stark. And do you love me?"

"Yes ma'am," he said.

"You could work for my family," she said. The Tyrell's were a distinguished family, even his parents couldn't complain if he landed in stock trading or investment. Maybe even a politician...

"Maths' not my strong suit."

"You're good at arithmetic, and you're good at strategy. I've seen it. And my brother loves you, my father loves you, of course we would take you in!"

"Your grandmother-"

"Thinks you're a smart, handsome young man."

"Sounds fake but okay," he glanced to the pale, fading sunlight through the windows. The lamp on his desk added an orange glow but the room had grown dark with dusk.

"She likes you!"

"Gave me a stink eye last I saw her."

"She doesn't like when you and Loras jest, is all."

"Jest, is that what we call it now? Jousting, maybe."

"Oh god, please stop," she laughed, and they fell back onto the bed together. A few minutes passed in silence. She stroked over his arm and up to his face, tracing over his eyebrows and jaw. "You don't have to stay here if you don't want to." Her voice was gentle and the shadows of the room fell softly over her face.

"I love you," he said, unbidden. He watched her eyes soften.

"Beautiful boy," she said, "honourable and just."

"Maiden fair," he said, and she could not contain her giggle, "I will ward you with all my strength, give my blood for yours."

"Safeword, baby?" she said, a hand near his throat.

"Weirwood."

"Good boy."

### Arya

 

Arya had ridden home in the front of the van with Jon and Bran alone in the back. She dropped her bag by her door and laid on her bed, head hanging over the side. Upside down, she stared across the hall to Rickon's open door. His empty room. Blood rushed to her head.  home after school only to quickly storm out of her room again. She needed to find something to do before the quiet drove her mad.

Sansa's room was empty, as Sansa was rarely home until after dinner. She did not take kindly to disturbances from her siblings when she was home, either, and wouldn't answer sometimes when Arya knocked.

Jon had immediately retreated to his room and closed the door behind him. Arya peeked in to see if he was up for adventure with her and earned a broody glare. "Maybe tomorrow," said Jon, before casting a pair of headphones over his ears and closing his eyes. Only Ghost was allowed to come and go freely from his space, it seemed.

Bran was still tired from his physical therapy. Arya didn't bother him very often. From the top of the stairs, the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the kitchen.

As she moved down the stairs and further into the house, she could hear her mother answering calls in her office behind a closed door. They had been having problems with timber and mill unions and apparently wanted to get ahead of it. 

Her father, she knew, would not be home until after dinner. He often worked late and looked very tired when he was home. Arya couldn't sleep either, so she tried to stay out of his way. It was the only thing she could do for him.

So she left without anyone noticing, and slipped away from Visenya's hill where the Stark home sat. She took the underground towards Flea Bottom, following the Street of the Sister and exiting the train before reaching Rhaenys's Hill.

Sometimes she would take the underground all the way to the Dragonpit. Before the domed dragon stables, Maegor the Cruel destroyed the Sept of Remembrance with the dragon Balerion. Some said you could find the reminds of the Faith Militants who burned and boiled to death inside, all gathered together for morning prayers.

Arya would've liked to the see the Sept in its glory, for it would've been a true sight, but more than anything she wished to see the Dragonpit Maegor had built on the ashes. The great dome had once housed all the great Targaryen dragons until being destroyed in a smallfolk uprising. She couldn't blame them for it. The majority of the roof structure had collapsed in a dragon's attempt to escape death. _Her name was Dreamfyre._

Fortunately, Princess Daenerys had ordered its reconstruction ten years ago. It sat finished, empty, for almost four years now. Some said the Dragon Princess lived up there. Some said it was where she housed her dragons. The first in Westeros in almost a thousand years.

Arya would sometimes sneak around in the cellars beneath the Dragonpit, avoiding Targaryan guards while she looked for leftover wildfire caches. She had yet to see anything of the Dragon Princess, nor her beasts, or even the skeletons of the Faith Militant.

Today, however, Flea Bottom held undiscovered treasures. Best of all, there was no one to recognize her and no guards patrolled Flea Bottom with actual intent. The slums had not improved much with the coming of the industrial age, but they _had_ improved the smell of shit and piss. It lingered around the worst alleys and neighbourhoods and when she passed through the lower part of the city where the vents sat it would nearly overwhelm her. _Bless the Seven for indoor plumbing,_ she thought, shouldering her way through the crowd outside the dirty station.

Cutting through alleys, Arya wound around looking for a pocket to sneak her fingers into. She passed an alehouse, already crowded in the late hours of the afternoon. Though tempted to slip in and find a drunken wallet or two, she continued deeper into the squalors.

The Targaryen's were clearly doing no better in recent years than they had in ancient ones. Arya was happy to have the true Princess back in Westeros yet wished they were doing better for the people. As large parts of their manufacturing moved to Essos, many older buildings lay in disuse. And yet, homeless wandered the streets and collected bottles on corners. It was hard, sometimes, to sneak away into the darker, more neglected parts of King's Landing, only to return to the safety of her home.

Still, an abandoned house or old factory would do. Arya wanted to break some windows, maybe light something on fire within the relative safety of clear, open floor space. She had a knife in her pocket to carve her initials wherever the fuck she wanted.

Instead, she found a tall fence with a clear hole in it. It was obviously meant for scurrying in and out of. When she leant down and popped her head through, the only thing on the other side she could see for miles was old, rusted cars and other piles of junk. Grinning at her find, Arya ducked in and started climbing around.

She slashed the shit out of a dozen car tires and left her initials in the old paint on car sides. She put a frowny face in the upholstery of a rusted red jeep before taking the front seat. This is where she should light a cigarette, she knew, but she didn't have any of those. Arya plucked a toothpick out of her wallet and chewed it instead. She hadn't even thought to bring along something awful to drink to get well and truly fucked. No one would've known, no one would've cared.

She laid her head on the steering wheel, closing her eyes and admitting her fatigue. She hadn't slept well the night before, if she only closed her eyes for a moment she would get on to the spray painting she had planned.

Arya's head slipped forward enough to honk the fully-functional jeep horn. She started backwards and hit her head on the headrest. "Shit," she hopped out of the jeep. There was a large stack of ruined cars in front of her, and so she set out to climb it for her next feat.

When she neared the top, her breath laboured and sweat poured down her forehead. The beginning of November and the South was still temperate. Arya hated it.

"Hey! What're you doing in my yard?"

Arya spun around, already clutching her knife in one hand and preparing to throw a box in front of her with the other. It was a boy barely older than she but with a solid two stone on her. He looked mad and so she gripped her knife tighter.

"What's it to you? Think I need to steal any of your rubbish?"

"You'll get hurt if you climb that, come down!" the boy called.

"Fuck no!" she called back. He climbed over the front of the first car on the bottom, his intent clear. Arya turned and quickly scrabbled further away, over the car she sat on and onto the one above it. Four cars up and her breath caught. On one side, ruined cars and scrap gently sloped down and seemed to continue on forever. The other, a sheer drop to the ground.

She heard the boy panting behind her, and spun. For such a boy he didn't seem very nimble at all. Arya frowned and pointed Needle in his direction. "Come any further and I'll gut you," she said.

"You shouldn't climb this high. The stacks look stable but they'll tip and crush you beneath." He stopped climbing and sat down on the car below her to rest. "What's your name?" he asked, not seeming to care about her knife.

"What's it to you?"

"Aren't you friendly. That's a fancy highborn accent, you got."

Arya felt heat flood her face. "Don't make assumptions."

"I have to assume if you don't tell me otherwise."

She lowered her knife. "You could try not sticking your nose into other people's business."

"It's my house, I ask the questions. In your house, you can ask the questions," he asserted.

"No wonder you smell like rubbish, your house is a dump."

"My dad sent me to see who was messing around in the yard," he said, then threw a thumb over his shoulder, away from the swell of the scrapyard. "We live in the smithhouse next door. You're the one hanging out here for fun." He leaned back on his hands.

Arya frowned but otherwise didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. After a minute, she sat down on the hood of the car she stood on. The boy relaxed after that.

"My name's Gendry," he said.

"Ary," she said.

### Sansa

 

"No one else tonight?" said Joffrey.

"No one wanted to go out in the storm," said Myrcella. Then she leant in more toward Sansa,  "I texted Jon but he said he has a lot of homework to do."

"He does," said Sansa. Jon had declined mostly because he hated spending an extended amount of time with  Joffrey. And it was better that he had, for they could not fit another at their table with such a crowd. The Hunstman sat between Aegon's High Hill and Visengya's Hill on the Waterfront. Thus, the worst of the storm assailed it.

Such a storm pushed people inside. The pub was warm and welcoming, as the owner knew what the wet season in the south could be like. At all sides, the crowd pressed against them. Usually such a comfortable, somewhat boisterous place, the Huntsman was full to bursting and far too loud. Even the dancefloor and modest stage had been overtaken.

Joffrey had all but given up most conversation, it seemed. He was drinking heavily, and Sansa, for lack of anything better to do, followed suit. The drinks were cheap tonight and the ever-present Lannister guards kept Sansa's greater worries at bay.

Myrcella thrived given a purpose, and her purpose this night was given by Sansa herself: A fun night out at their favourite pub. She hadn't succeeded in gathering too many of their friends, though. Sansa frowned. Jeyne had vowed to try and make it out but once the downpour started Sansa knew she would cancel. Sure enough, the text came some 30 minutes later. No bother. Sansa, Myrcella, and Joffrey had already been let in from the rain.

"Can I get anyone another round?" Myrcella stood from the table. "Food perhaps?"

"Yes, please! Oh, and order me some of their fancy chips," said Sansa. Myrcella laughed and bounced over to the bar. She was keeping her head about her, and for that Sansa was quite thankful. Joffrey was always less antagonistic with his siblings around.

"Chips?" said Joffrey, disgust clear in his voice. "Shouldn't you slow down a bit? You cry when you're drunk, and I can't stand the wailing of women."

Sansa didn't look at him. She didn't say anything. Joffrey had a nasty habit of remembering exactly what she said and twisting it in the next moment, in the next few days, weeks, sometimes months. Like his mother. At least Cersei wasn't mean to her face most times.

Myrcella returned and set a round down for everyone, and all three cheered. A few tables around them cheered as well, for no reason other than to be louder. Sansa's food came a moment later and they all settled on their phones, picking at chips but making little attempt to talk.

"I need to piss." Joffrey spun off towards the bathroom, half a pint left behind. In the corner of her eye, the shadow of the Hound shifted towards the bathrooms as well. It was tempting to find him, to catch the familiar, broad line of Joffrey's personal security guard so obvious against the average-height crowd. There were many tall men in the Huntsman tonight, however.

Sansa eyed her own glass instead, quickly approaching empty. _Maiden, how long have we been out?_ She made no move to check her phone, instead clinking glasses with a smiling Myrcella and taking another gulp.

Myrcella leaned in to be heard over the din of the room. "Feeling better?"

"Much better," said Sansa, giggling a bit as she popped a bite into her mouth. She was going to finish the whole tray on her own if she wasn't careful, so Sansa pushed it in the other girl's direction.

"Thank you!" said Myrcella, digging in a bit. "Sorry about the no-shows."

"I don't care," said Sansa, quite frank from the drinks. "I'm like- being out with you." She couldn't help the hiccups she attracted and covered her mouth instead. "I like Joffrey," she hiccuped.

"Oh Sansa," Myrcella laughed, "you're pissed aren't you?"

"I think- I think I might be," Sansa giggled. Her hiccups continued.

"What's got you worked up?" Joffrey sat back down and pulled his chair in, scowling at someone who bumped into him.

"She's drunk," said Myrcella, before Sansa could control her giggling.

"I thought I told you to slow down." 

Sansa's laughter trailed off, and even her hiccups disappeared. Like she was doing it to spite him. She shivered and stared down at her glass to avoid Joffrey's heavy gaze. 

"Better than the crying, I suppose," he said, and he didn't sound upset. Sansa ignored the last gulp of her pint in favour of the last of her food.

"I want something else to eat." Sansa placed her forehead down on their table. She knew she could sober up a bit if she just ate more.

Joffrey scoffed above her. "Are you going to fall asleep? It's barely passed ten."

Sansa shot up, scrabbling for her phone. "It's past ten? Cella, I told you my curfew is earlier this weekend! Shit, oh god," she cried. It was too much, just too much, she knew she was too tired- of course, it was later than she thought. There were tears already in her eyes. How much had she drunk?

"Joffrey, I have to go home! I'm going to be in so much trouble!"

"Your fucking parents," Joffrey stood. "We'd be better off without them."

It only made Sansa cry for real. "Don't say that!"

Myrcella pulled her in for a hug. "You'll be alright, just be honest."

Sansa sniffed back more tears and cleared her throat, and she squeezed the other girl around the middle for a short moment until Joffrey tugged on her wrist.

"You're not coming with us?" she said, even as he led Sansa away, and Sansa stared back at Myrcella one last time. "You're just going to leave her here?" Sansa cried.

"I'm sending you home with the dog," said Joffrey, and all at once she turned and saw the Hound towering in front of them, parting the crowd in ways Joffrey could not even with his significant height.

Of course he would abandon her out of the two of them. Relieved for Myrcella, she still grit her teeth against the idea of being alone with Joffrey's guard. She tried very hard to avoid it at any point, for she had seen the mean looks he gave her, and everyone else. He could hurt her.

"Please, I can call a car, Joffrey," she said. Joffrey's grip on her wrist grew tight.

"It's his fucking job," said Joffrey, "doing whatever the fuck I say. And I say, you can go home to your stupid fucking parents and their bloody curfews."

He let go of her then, for which she was thankful. She rubbed the red from her wrist and accepted her coat from Joffrey at the door. He smiled, once again the perfect Prince, and leant down to kiss her. The force of it hurt her lips, and she leant away.

At once Joffrey grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her close to him as he wanted. Equally sudden was the presence of the Hound looming above them, blocking them from the sight of rest of the room.

"What do you want, mutt?"

"Your sister is waiting for you," said the Hound.

Joffrey scoffed but let go of her arm. "Go," he said, and then it was the Hound who guided her, out of the bar and into the rain with haste.

"Fucking cunts everywhere," the Hound said, shoving at the people still making their way inside. 

Her drunken feet stumbled. For a few seconds, she had the distinct impression of him simply carrying her weight as she steadied herself. She shook off his arm and walked for herself the rest of the way to the car, huddled and protected under her jacket.

The Hound didn't open the car door for her, as Joffrey might've, and instead curled into the driver's side without pause. Sansa slipped in on the other side, and quietly buckled herself in as the car hummed to life. She didn't dare look across at him. The rain pouring against the windows caught her gaze and kept it as they left the parking lot and entered the night's moderate traffic.

Her phone read 10:32. Her parents were, no doubt, waiting up for her to make sure she got home safe. And tell her they would be having a chat in the morning. She sighed, quickly sinking to despair until the snap of a lighter grabbed her attention.

Finally, Sansa looked over at him. The Hound was even more monstrous up close, he could barely fit in the small driver's seat of the car. The lighter held so near his face cast it in an orange glow. _Ironic_ , she thought and wondered how he handled smoking after the accident in his past. Joffrey had made reference to it once or twice in the past, usually to taunt the man or remind him of his place in a way. He was scared of flame, that Sansa was sure.

"Is this your car?" she asked.

"No." He didn't even look at her.

"So you're smoking in someone else's car," she said, watching him take a puff and not even crack a window.

"Fucking Lannisters," is all Sandor said. He reached to turn the car's radio on. Sansa's eyes followed his arm. He was wearing a sweater beneath his jacket, it seemed. And on his head, of all things, was a beanie.

She giggled.

"What the bloody fuck are you laughing at?"

"Is that a _beanie_ cap?" she asked, still laughing.

"Shut your cunt mouth, girl," he said. It was quite hard to take him seriously when he put a big hand on his hand and pushed the hat down further. It did cover up the worst of his scars and his ruined ear, though, so she couldn't fault him. It was a good look.

She does what he asks if only to return to looking out the window. The roads of King's Landing wind and wind around each other. Thankfully the traffic isn't bad given the weather.

"Shit," he muttered, and Sansa glanced over to see his blunt canoeing.

"I'll wet it," she said, for lack of anything better to do. The weed would settle her head, too, if she stole a few hits. He passed it to her with a strange look on his face.

"Watch the road," she said when she could feel him glancing at her insistently. The Hound looked away, and she wet a finger and fixed the burning wrap.

Silently, she held a hand out for his lighter. He glared at her. "Do you want me to light it- or not?" she asked.

His hand was much bigger than hers, and far warmer than she thought it would be. The lighter seemed so small in his hand. When she looked up, however, she could see the relief on his face, so she held the blunt between her lips and turnt away to light it.

"I never liked these." She fought off a few tight coughs.

"There's tobacco in it, dumb girl," he said, too late.

"Eugh, even worse." She took another drag, still watching out the window. She could feel him waiting, and took another drag still.

"Don't seem to bloody well mind," he said.

"I suppose not." She passed it back to him rather than hog it all, then kept her eyes on him. The car grew dark as they left the busier roads behind. She blinked through a split second of panic. _Of course he knows where I live,_ she thought. He had been driving Joffrey around as needed for more years than she could count. He had been in the boy's shadow since they were both young, she could remember that much.

They sat quietly together for some time, and Sansa knew they must be getting close to her house. The Hound kept the blunt to himself for a long while, until it was a roach barely longer than a knuckle of his finger. Then he held it out to her. His fingertips dwarfed it. It was very distracting. 

The pass wasn't smooth at all, and heat flooded her face when they're fingers scrabbled together so not to drop it between the seats.

"Fuck, girl-"

"Sorry!" she took it safely and relit the thing.

"Keep it." He waved her off, clearly done with it and her. Crossfaded, her growing headache faded and her stomach settled. She felt cosy, warm, and unzipped her jacket underneath her seatbelt.

Sansa continued smoking until it was too short for even her small fingers, then stamped it out and left it in the ashtray. She found she did not mind the harsh tobacco so much as time passed, and the buzz of the nicotine settled in pleasantly.

She watched him for a few minutes. He did look rather nice in that jacket of his, despite her earlier teasing. "You'd be a handsome man if you weren't so mean." She watched his hands tense on the wheel. He had nice arms. Why was she only noticing this now?

"Like, rather handsome, I'd think" she added, unable to help herself.

"I don't give two shits about what you think, girl." He pulled up to the gate of her driveway but made no move to get out or make her get out.

"Does it bring you joy to be so mean? To hurt people?" she asked, offended, for she had simply paid him a compliment.

"No, it gives me joy to kill people." Sansa couldn't find a response to such a thing, not having seen him or any other take a life.

After a pregnant pause, she said, "That's monstrous."

He threw open his door and left her alone in the car. She watched him circle around the front and had just enough time to unbuckle before the Hound dragged her out of the car and through the metal gate.

The rain beat down upon them, soaking them almost head to toe. The floodlights on the corners of the Stark home caught them in harsh, white light as they walked up the stone path. "That’s war for you." His face scrunched against the rain.

She glanced down. At some point, his grip on her arm had shifted from pulling to guiding, his large hand resting on her elbow now. "I think you may still have honour," she said, and he scoffed.

They arrived at the entrance to the Stark home, stepped onto the veranda which shielded them from the rain and from the security lights. "Thank you for taking me home, sir."

"Save your fucking sirs, little bird," he barked. "I'm not a fucking knight."

She pulled her hood back and persisted, "Thank you for walking me to my door, sir."

He appeared to realize they stood directly in front of the door to her family's home. Sansa, head laden and almost loopy, didn't care much at all that she was 'out late' still. Her parents waited beyond the door at her back, and she didn't want to go in.

The rainwater on the step quickly soaked through her shoes.

"Why do you let Joffrey call you a dog?" she asked, drawing the moment out.

Sandor looked over her face and she, in turn, looked over his. Given this wasn't the first time she had stood at such proximity with him, Sansa didn't mind the scars as much as the thought she would. In full view in the porch light, they warped a whole half of his face and one ear. His eyes were grey, which she had noticed before. She wondered what the skin felt like around the left one, where the skin pulled low and made him look almost sleepy.

"I like dogs better than men," he said, taking a step back from her and the door. "A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you straight in the face."

With one last long look, Sandor turned and left her there. She watched him trudge through the rain and back to the Lannister car before turning around and letting herself inside.

Mum and Dad were waiting for her in the kitchen. Her mother sat at the round table in the centre of the room, with her father leaning against the counter right behind her. A unified front, on all accounts. Sansa cringed.

"You're grounded," her mother said.

"Go to bed, we'll talk more in the morning," said Ned. Sansa nodded and meekly made her way up the stairs. The alarm clock next to her bed read 10:53. There would be no way of talking herself out of that one. Down the hall, she could hear Jon's video games creeping out from underneath his door. She could knock, sneak in and say hello, partake in whatever new adventure he had bought.

She shed her jacket and onto the floor fell Sandor's lighter. In the soft light of her room, the simple, black plastic stood out. She stooped over and picked it up. After a moment of holding it, Sansa placed it on her dresser and went to brush her teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (There's a shitton of errors in this I'm sure of it.)
> 
> an actual line I omitted about flea bottom: all the shit moved slowly and surely through the massive pipes underground.
> 
> r u proud of me, george?


	3. No More Suckers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets drunk, Sansa asks some hard questions, and I definitely added Bran as a POV just now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No more suckers in my life  
> All the drama gets them high  
> I'm just trying to draw the line  
> No more suckers in my life  
> They just keep bleeding me dry  
> 'Til there's nothing left inside
> 
> You touch like a leech and I'm left with the bruising  
> Trying to find a fix, but you're always using me  
> 'Til I'm weak, 'til I need a transfusion  
> Why can't you help yourself?" -Marina and the Diamonds

### Jon

The Huntsman sat relatively quiet on this particular day. Jon almost regretted not going out the weekend before with Sansa and her friends when the pub had been a rager. His sister had come home after curfew reeking of drinks and pot and told him all about it the next day with bags under her eyes.

Jon hadn't _tried_ to listen in on the conversation between Sansa and their parents that morning, but he hadn't really left the kitchen either. Arya had been sitting across the kitchen table with him, and they both traded expressions in reaction to the argument unfolding behind closed doors. Sansa had made a great case for herself, but she was still grounded.

Which meant Jon sat alone at the bar while waiting for Drogo to show up. The trip from Dragonstone was some 600km but it could be made in a few hours. Drogo was staying at a mate's house overnight and thus agreed to see Jon for a few hours after dinner. The older man had been very explicit on his intent to get wasted.

_"We'll go to the Huntsman," Drogo had decreed. "I haven't been there in a few months. Who else have you invited?"_

_"Uhh," Jon said into the phone. "Who do you want me to invite?"_

_"You're the one who wants to forget about your ex," the man said. "Do what you fucking want."_

So they were meeting alone, just the two of them. Their old teammates were too rowdy for what Jon wanted from the evening: a soft, drunken lament to his old relationship. Maybe it was fitting the pub held a dark, almost smokey interior when Jon arrived. The night wasn't too cold and they had yet to see snow in the south. Winterfell would be covered in it by now. The only good part of the winter break would be travelling north and spending a few weeks in the old castle for the holidays.

Winterfell itself was a decent little town, the most northern 'city' by some standards. Jon favoured the tiny logging and mining towns further beyond. He visited them with Benjen in the past. That wouldn't happen this year. Ned Stark was now the one who spent the greater part of the winter months convening with family heads and union leaders. His father never offered to bring him along, as Benjen used to. Jon missed those long, cold days dearly.

It took ten more minutes for Drogo to arrive and Jon thought of Winterfell through most of it. Then Drogo arrived and they traded hugs and pats and cheers, and as Drogo hailed a round of drinks and they talked about normal shit, Jon could think about little else but how to bring up Dany in a comfortable way. Drogo ordered food and the conversation trailed off. Then his old captain turned to him.

"So you got dumped again and your life is over," said Drogo.

"Yep, full circle." Jon gulped from his pint.

"What's that like?"

"It fucking sucks," said Jon. "She was so beautiful and funny. So smart and compassionate for others. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled at me."

"Very specific," said Drogo.

"She started at Aegon High this fall."

Drogo grunted.

"From Essos..."

"Any reason you're too fucking nervous to tell me who she is? She Dothraki? Do I fuckig know her?"

"Princess Daenerys." Jon glanced away.

"Fuck." Drogo clinked their pints together and then they chugged together. Over his glass though, Jon could see Drogo staring at him.

"What?"

"What's she like?" Drogo set his empty pint down.

"What?"

"Princess Daenerys, what was she like? Other than the lovestruck stuff."

Jon didn't know why Drogo was asking but he really didn't care either. This was his first opportunity to talk about her with someone who even knew what was going on. Even Robb didn't have the full details yet. It was hard to commiserate over something so powerful and fresh. 

"She cares a lot for the common people," he said. "But she is also very private, guarded. Having her full attention..." Jon almost lost himself in his recollection, then refocused. "Being touched by her was like being branded."

When he met Drogo's eyes again they were dark and glassy. "What?"

"You should fuck someone else."

Jon could only blink at him. Two pints in and he was feeling the heat on his face. Drogo had emptied more glasses than he but still stood straighter and spoke better. Jon was, quite honestly, very jealous of him. On many accounts. Drogo was in line to be a professional rugby player, for fuck's sake.

"She was the love of my life," Jon repeated to him.

Drogo hooted and smacked his back. "That's what we all say. You just gotta get yourself over it, man."

"Only time-"

"-will tell, yeah, yeah, fucking bullshit. The only what to get over is to get under. I've seen you on the field, Snow, you move like a storm. Put that energy into getting some new pussy."

Jon choked on his lager as Drogo simply shrugged.

Blood pouring into his cheeks, Jon stared at him. He'd never been in a casual relationship before. Ygritte had been his first relationship ever. His bond with her had been one of the best he'd ever find, Jon assumed. They had given each other second chances and hadn't held any strict boundaries or restrictions. She had shown him freedom. Then Jon ruined them and quickly began to ruin himself _. Oh god, now I'm just getting sad._

"I'm not very good at casual relationships," said Jon, for it was true.

Drogo said something Dothraki in nature Jon couldn't understand before swinging a huge, heavy arm around Jon's shoulders. He pulled Jon in close until Jon could smell his skin underneath the layers of cologne and laundry. Salty, like sweat, but not overwhelming or bad. "Always getting caught up in that thick head of yours."

 _Good captain instinct,_ John thought.

"Just pick someone up from a fucking bar like this and find a dark fucking alleyway and eat some fucking ass." Drogo cursed a lot more when he drank. It was more endearing than Jon cared to admit, given the older man was more than four stones heavier than he.

"A rebound? You really think that will work?" Jon gulped the last of his drink and thought about a third.

"The only way to get over someone, Jon?" Drogo poked a thick finger to the centre of Jon's chest.

"Is to get under someone," said Jon. Drogo had dated many of their classmates during his time at Aegon's High and Jon himself could testament to his skill at short-term relationships. Many of them had ended amicably if Jon remembered correctly. He should take Drogo’s word for it.

"One last drink before we hit the underground," said Jon.

"That's my boy!" Drogo pounded on the table and quickly ordered a final round of drinks for the two of them. Jon had to admit, he did feel a whole lot better. His legs were all tingly, too. Getting home would be difficult without Drogo's help.

"You're gonna have to get me home," he said, to be honest.

"I take full responsibility." Drogo clinked their glasses together. "Three, two, one, go!"

 

### Sansa

 

The morning conversation with her parents went better than Sansa expected. Her mother had already called Cersei, who had shared Joffrey's side of the events. Joffrey had mentioned Sansa's distress and very real lapse in memory about her new, early curfew which Catelyn found quite relieving. She and Ned had been placated by the account before they had called Sansa to their study to discuss the matter.

Her parents both sat at their desks with their chairs turnt towards one another. As Sansa knocked on the door, entered, and sat before them, Ned and Catelyn Stark both swivelled to face her seat instead. She recounted her night to the best of her ability at their request, omitting no details she knew Joffrey would've mentioned. Her parents nodded sympathetically at times but did not seem surprised she was drinking illegally at the Huntsman.

_"No more drinking in public with your of-age friends. Even if we know and trust Brienne, it's still illegal and could bring heavy repercussions for her businesses. If you want to drink, you'll do it under our roof," Ned had said._

_"Or, if agreed upon beforehand, in the Lannister Household," said Catelyn._

Overall, they had been quite lenient with her. It was November, after all. Perhaps this was their way of trying to understand. She was grounded for one week, though she was allowed to visit the Lannister home for homework purposes before 6pm. Joffrey and Myrcella were to be allowed in the Stark home for the same reason, and Sansa was grateful. She would, overall, still have plenty of time out of the house should she so choose. The next week would pass without notice, Sansa assumed, especially with her exams coming up. Still, she had a new, early curfew and bedtime. The new 10PM curfew would extend beyond her grounding as well.

The weekend had been boring. She hadn't left the house at all until school the next week. School itself had been almost agonizing in a way, for each new friend she met she had to explain her circumstances, her new sentence. Many were disappointed. Joffrey, in particular, was quite angry with her. When she told him during lunch, he gripped her arms and hurt her. His fingers had left growing marks, she later realized, and she quickly donned a sweatshirt through her classes.

Today had been much better thus far. Joffrey had been the perfect gentleman, had bought her lunch and met up with her throughout the school day. They had plans to study at the Lannister home for a few hours that afternoon. Under the condition they went home immediately afterwards, she was allowed to eat dinner with his family. Given how Joffrey smiled at her through their one class together, Sansa couldn't help but be optimistic for the afternoon ahead. Surely he meant to make up for the day before, and all would be well again. Joffrey was sure to have something to drink as well, and she wanted to fool around some after her work was finished.

When the final bell sounded and everyone disbursed unto the school grounds, Sansa waited for Joffrey just outside the front doors and to the side of the stone steps to the main hallway. It was sunny but cold; she was grateful when he didn't make her wait long. Sansa took the backseat, letting Joffrey sit next to the Hound as customary.

Aegon's High, or " _the_ secondary school for young lords and ladies" according to her mother, sat very close to the peak of the hill, just below the official Red Keep. It was built out of some of the oldest structures the city had to offer, reconstructed from part of the old manufacturing sector for the sake of private education. Sansa would sometimes let Joffrey fill the silence with Sandor in favour of staring out the window and watching old, stone buildings pass.

This time, Sansa couldn't help sneaking glances to the front seat, trying to be discreet in the way she drank up the Hound's appearance. He was wearing his hair down, in front of his face, as he often did in Joffrey's company. Sansa knew now it was to hide the worst of his scars but she would see it pulled back like it had been under his hat some nights before. He was wearing the same plain leather jacket as before, which humoured her. Did he only have one coat? Surely not. In the Lannister's employment as Joffrey's closest guard he would be well-compensated, Sansa assumed. How did he spend his free time? What did he spend his money on?

The ride from Aegon High to the Lannister home on Visenya's Hill was a short one. A freshly paved, private driveway led them past the manned gate and the floating guards. Sansa thought the presence of so many guards was overkill, as her own family employed very few. Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister were paranoid about their children, however, and spared no expense for their children.

The Lannister home itself was a beautiful stone structure that towered over the lawn trees and even the neighbouring houses on either side. Sansa had the honour of being invited to Casterly Rock several summers in a row, and thus she could see the favoured gold in-lay designs of the Lannister nobility even in the pillars and front steps of their second home. Like the Starks, the family would stay in King's Landing for most of the year so Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen could advance through the most prestigious private school system in Westeros. While they had met in childhood due to their parents' friendship, Sansa liked to think Joffrey and she would've met and fallen in love attending Aegon’s together anyways.

Joffrey opened the car door for her as the Hound lingered a few feet behind him, silent as ever. Sansa met his eyes over Joffrey's shoulder, for even with her boyfriend's significant growth in youth that brought him towering above her, the Hound towered taller still. Something about that pleased her greatly and she smiled. Joffrey was already turning away and headed for the front door of his house, and so the Hound stared back at her. Shameless, he waited for her to look away first. But he did nothing to make her do so, no mean expression or harsh words, she noted. She stood by her statement of him being handsome (in his own way) when not so malicious. Still, Sansa turned and followed Joffrey inside.

Her thoughts of the Hound ceased when Joffrey closed his bedroom door behind them and left the older man waiting in the hallway. Sansa flinched at the sound of the door slamming with his gusto and quickly sat down at his large, wooden desk. Joffrey jumped on his bed behind her as she started unloading her backpack.

"We gonna fool around?" he thumbed through a magazine.

"After our homework, silly," she laid out her literature, committed to Mr Davos and his belief in her. She had a good chance for the highest possible honours this year and refused to let it go. Her parents would see all their children through post-secondary, and Sansa hadn't decided where she wanted to land.

Robb and Margaery were both in Dragonstone, and Sansa was sure Jon would quickly follow them. Did she want to attend the historic university as well? Prince Viserys was rumoured to be in attendance as well but she hadn't thought to ask anyone to confirm. The Prince was said to be brooding and shorter than his older brother and father had been. He was also said to be quite regal, still a Prince despite his years of near-exile with his sister and a small host of Targaryen loyalists. There were some who said he would marry a Dornish Princess to honour his mother's Dornish ties, also coincidentally strengthening his family's claim to the throne.

 _How would the two royal siblings negotiate their rule,_ Sansa wondered. Daenerys was younger by several years and had no match set in place for her. However, the Princess was beautiful and intelligent from what Sansa had seen and heard, given Jon's short infatuation with her. A match would be quickly forthcoming.

Sansa sat in partial envy, for it would take Joffrey many years still before joining their families in matrimony. Their parents had been planning for it for years since they had smiled and played as preteens together still despite growing up a bit. Yet the idea of such a day did not bring her as much joy as it once would have. The hand-shaped bruises on her arms still ached unpleasantly at the lightest touch and only the winter weather saved her from looking out-of-place in her long-sleeved shirt. Joffrey had first hurt her when they were only thirteen and Arya had defended her. He didn't put his hands on her often but boys were known to be cruel to the girls they liked. She had thought he'd grow out of it.

An hour of quiet reading passed. She could hear Joffrey start to lose interest in his work, fidgetting more and more as time passed. At his third sigh, Sansa lifted her head from her book. "Would you like to take a break?"

"You mean we aren't going to study the whole fucking time? This 5pm curfew is bullshit," he said.

"You've said that already," she tried lightly.

"You don't even have enough time to stay for dinner." She would be flattered by his insistence if not for his bad attitude. Him wanting to spend more time with her was sweet but his temper was not.

"It's only for a week," she cooed, standing from the desk and joining him on his bed. Joffrey moved over and she made herself more comfortable next to him. He was the perfect height for her to put her cheek to his chest and still play with his feet. He kissed her hand gently.

"I know, it's just bloody ridiculous." Joffrey had always had trouble understanding accountability in the Stark Household. The rules never changed but they were upheld, and Catelyn stood in unity with Ned at all times. Unlike Cersei, who Sansa had seen with her own eyes come to the defense of her son against Robert. To be fair, Robert Baratheon was a larger, louder man than Sansa's own father could ever be. Sansa never feared her father's hands... but Robert was angry. Who knew what he did to Joffrey, though her boyfriend never mentioned anything.

Sansa believed Joffrey could be kind, could be saved. When free from his parents' influence, he would grow into himself as a man, respect others. No longer grab her too tight. His uncle Jaime was the perfect gentlemen, so Sansa couldn't help but think Joffrey had the exact same Golden Prince potential.

A knock came on the door. "Your mother wants you in the foyer, Joffrey," a voice rang, and Sansa knew it was Jaime himself as if called by the very idea of his valiant nature.

Joffrey cursed the interruption but stood and threw the door open. "Wait here," he called over his shoulder, and though Sansa at once stilled at the command, she saw the Hound do just the same, frozen in the corridor as Joffrey and his uncle marched away.

Sansa quickly slid off the soft comforter and took her place at Joffrey's desk with her forgotten homework. The bedroom door was left open, and at once she could feel the Hound's eyes on her back. He was trained to stand vigilant, so she could not blame him, but he stood in the shadow of the hallway and it made her skin crawl.

"If you're going to guard me with such scrutiny, step into the light and be plain about it," she said, for she would rather him not try and hide his grey gaze. His hulking form stepped towards the door only once, enough for her to see his face should she turn her gaze over her shoulder.

"I feel safer already," she said, though she did not fully know why. They lapsed into silence, with Sansa's attention grasped once again by the Durran Godsgrief and his love for a goddess.

"Sansa," said Jaime, once again calling for her from the door to Joffrey's bedroom. Sansa smiled at him and made to stand as he continued. "Cersei has decided to take Joffrey to pick up Myrcella."

She sat back down fully. Jaime had to decency to look abashed, for his message was an insulting one. "That doesn't make any sense." She turned back to her school work and frowned down at her notes.

"Cersei doesn't make much sense sometimes," said Jaimie. He glanced around the empty room and behind him to the Hound as well. "Would you like to wait for their return or should I call a car?"

"No," said Sansa, "the Hound will drive me home shortly."

Jaime nodded as if this was completely ordinary, for in his knowledge it must be. Sansa was not known as the risk-taking type, and there was no reason for her to refuse him unless she felt comfortable with Joffrey's closest guards. As she should be, in his mind.

"Very well. I'm sorry for the trouble this may have caused you." Jaime bowed in that regal way he often did for ladies in court and took his leave.  In his absence, Sansa looked at Sandor once again and caught his eyes. He was watching her, as always.

"Decided I'm not scary anymore, have you?" His low voice carried from the doorway as he stepped up and filled it.

She looked him up and down, with his shoulders hunched in and his long hair covering parts of his scarred face. By all accounts, she _should_ be scared. He used to be quite mean to her when she was younger and first spending time in the Lannister home. The Starks and the Baratheons were thick as blood and Sansa had considered Joffrey and Myrcella some of her best friends. The Hound had joined Joffrey's guard when Joffrey had first overtaken her in height. Her beloved had delighted in the mean things the Hound had to say, especially to her, and encouraged Sandor to snap and snarl at her as he pleased.

Slowly over time, however, the Hound had started acting less like a monster and more like his namesake. He would still bark and bite, yes, but his eyes were dark and sad, and young Sansa had dared to believe the big, angry man needed a tender treat and a gentle hand like a wounded animal. Now, Sansa didn't know what to think.  His eyes were still dark and at times sad, but she had seen the way he looked at her from the shadows and wanted to know what it all meant.

"You used to be mean to me." Sansa busied herself with packing her bag for she could no longer stand before him and meet his eyes. She could still feel him, staring, and did not know what to think of the intensity of it. Like she confounded him, angered him. "Why did you stop?"

He didn't answer until Sansa looked up at him.

"You were a child," he started, "it was easy." She waited for him to continue and he squirmed under the pressure, the attention, biting against words he wasn't inclined to share. "You believed it all, everything I said. You'd get so upset, cry and run off to your Prince."

She held a hand up and cut him off. "Why did you stop, Sandor?" He cringed at the sound of his own name. "Tell me honestly, that is all I ask of you."

"You ask a great deal more than you fucking know," he said, but he did not leave, had not stepped back from the doorway. Instead, he looked away. "You were pure, better than anything in this wretched house. You believed my every word, listened, wide-eyed." His hands clenched into fists at his sides and it was the first time Sansa leant back, aware she was the alone with him. "This was the first job I had since coming back from overseas. I hated my life and wanted to die and I couldn't stop bullying a _child_. Being cruel got your attention and I needed- I needed... I knew it was wrong to say things to a little girl but I couldn't stop."

"But you did," she insisted.

"I should've quit this fucking job." He unclenched his fists. "Fucking Lannisters." Though she wanted a few minutes for him to continue, he refused and stayed silent.

Sansa stood and shouldered her backpack. "Take me home, Sandor." It was an easy out and he quickly took it, spinning around and leading her down the hall. She kept close behind as they made their way down the grand staircase that led to the foyer. Sansa watched him walk, his broad back seeming to fill up her entire field of vision. Further, through the kitchen and to the garage, and she still couldn't shake the newfound nerves building within her. Everything with Joffrey had to be calculated to avoid his ire. She had no plan in this. It was dangerous and it was so unlike her to be making such quick calls. But it also felt right, having Sandor be the one to drive her home, to have him be the one next to her where otherwise she would be alone. Confronting him hadn't felt wrong either. She didn't fear his hands or his anger, not now. She valued his honesty more than anything.

Sandor didn't open the door for her, not that she expected him to. She had never asked it of him and though he would if she started now, it was not something she needed of him. She caught him looking at her over the top of the car, however, before ducking into the passenger seat. As he started the car, it struck her how easily he accepted her demands.

House Clegane was a noble one, yes, but one of landed nights instead of lords. They, and in turn Sandor, swore fealty to House Lannister ages ago and would not break that pact. Still, as a daughter of House Stark, Sansa would have to say very little to get Sandor removed from service. A mere mention of his lingering stares to her father and Sansa had no doubt she would never see Sandor Clegane again.

His apparent fixation with her only fueled her feelings of control over the situation. Sandor looked at her only once or twice as he peeled out of the Lannister drive and unto the streets of Visenya's Hill. Familiar landmarks and houses passed by. Sandor had said he liked dogs better than people, for their inability to lie to your face. How did working for Joffrey, someone who lied regularly, play into his view?

"Why do you take orders so well?" she asked instead. He let Joffrey push him around like an animal, in ways she had never expected a man so large to put up with.

"Don't have to think about it then," said Sandor.

"Think about what?"

"Anything." He pulled a turn and she watched his hands glide over the steering wheel. The clock on the dash read 4:32PM. "Let some other cunt decide what's right or wrong. Following orders is easy."

"So you like someone to take responsibility for your actions."

"At least there are rules," he countered. "Consistency."

"What about the authority of your superiors? Do you question that?"

His grip on the wheel turnt knuckle white. "I try not to."

Sansa crossed her arms and turnt to look out the window. "You should. If you can't trust their intentions, who or what will protect you?"

"I suppose you would have my bloody best intentions at heart, little bird? You want to protect me?"

She levelled him with a glare he found amusing, to her chagrin. The metal gates of the Stark house grounds rose ahead of them.

"Would you find that so hard to believe? That someone would want better for you?" She opened her door to leave the car behind.

"Fucking unbelievable," he said to spite her. She shut the car door on him for it.

### Bran

 

He rose high above Visenya's Hill on the wind, and higher still until he could see the whole of King's Landing. He had started looking for maps of the city some time ago when he had first woke in the night from a dream of flying. He was weak now and the other crows hassled him, spurning his presence in their skies and pecking at his eyes and wings until he dove and flew lower.

He looked south and beyond the city, he could see the great Kingswood, lush and widespread as it had been since the time the great houses and their great kingdoms kneeled to the conquerer. He had watched its green borders ebb and wane for thousands of years like the murky tide in Blackwater Bay. Further south, the unyielding kingdom of Dorne sat and baked beneath the red sun, its sands shifting and consuming all in its path. It was too hot for snow here, too bright for shadows to survive. In the red mountains, she wolves howled to the rising moon and the people of Sunspear bid their time.

 He looked east, across the Arm of Dorne and the Narrow Sea and the many cities of Essos. His sight spanned the green Dothraki sea and its wild horses and beyond, under the mountain of Vaes Dothrak and past Womb of the World. He saw the Land of Shadow and the fabled lost city of Asshai by the shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the dawn.

 He turned north and saw the blue-green rush of the Trident and the old stone of the Eyrie, the Bloody Keep standing against the tests of time. Further, Bran turned his eyes to the keep of Winterfell.

He saw his father pleading with Robert. They looked like younger men, for Robert was thinner and Bran's own father did not look so worn down, so tired.

Bran swooped lower, crossing over the frozen wilds north of the Stark's historic seat. The wind cut through his feathers, blistering his skin beneath and beseeching him to turn back. Shadows tumbled all around him, fighting against the light of the moon and the stars above him. Eyes watched, though they were not his own. He could feel them, almost see with them.

When he lifted his eyes and saw clear across the ancient blue crystal Wall, past the endless forests cloaked in the snow where all the trees bowed under the weight of the ice they carried, past where shadows stretched against the hillside, black and hungry, and monsters grew strong. Past the wildling villages living in centuries past and into the growing darkness. There was a frozen shore and a great white river of ice, and vast, barren plains where nothing was meant to live or grow. North and north and north he flew, his wings aching until he looked unto the edge of the world and the endless sea of ice. He looked deep into the vast, black heart of winter, until he could not see, couldn't bear to hold its gaze any longer with the frigid winds scratching against his small eyes.

Then he cried out, afraid, and Bran woke to tears burning his cheeks. Dreams such as these happened more and more often. His arms and hands were stiff and cold as if exposed to the true winter air. He glanced down, pulling the blanket back to peer down at his legs. Even after almost a year, he woke up believing it all had been a nightmare.

After a moment, he reached down and noted his legs and feet were also cold.  His legs remained limp on the bed and the real nightmares were about the weather that day, the way the car had spun and flipped. The crow dream was tame in comparison, almost nonsense. But he was starting to remember more of it each time. Soon, Bran knew, he would gain a certain agency within the dream when it came for him. He would have to tell Arya, only she would believe him, would assert there was a certain power to dreams. Arya herself claimed of running with wolves and Nymeria specifically.

His mother had installed glowing plastic stars on his ceiling when he had complained about waking up from nightmares in the complete dark. That had been months ago. Now, the gentle shapes were familiar to him. He lay beneath them and stared, thinking of the blue ice of the wall and how they reminded him of the beautiful winter roses in the glass gardens of Winterfell. His father said they were the only thing that bloomed every year, though his eyes grew sad when he looked upon them. Jon loved winter roses as well and would tend to the icy gardens with Bran when they visited for holidays.

Bran slipped back towards sleep. He thought of his dreams in the hospital following the accident, dark and listless things affected by his medication, as his doctors said. It was better now, his bed more comfortable and his sleep heavier. Still, the sharp edge had lingered for months following his surgeries. He grew restless, forever fighting sleep. He feared it, at times, had gone to school pale and dizzy. Jojen Reed had been one of the few to comment on his apparent state, and the conversation had stuck with Bran for its oddity.

_"They said you almost died." Jojen had put his lunch down at Bran's table and taken a seat. Bran hadn't protested because Jojen was a funny boy and they played together when Jojen's father had business with Bran's own. "I died once," he said, "had the Greywater fever, it got me, had me right to the door, Bran."_

_"But you're here, you lived," Bran had said._

_"I was saved," said Jojen, "saved by a three-eyed crow who taught me how to fly. Now I fly as a crow most nights."_

Bran hadn't taken much stock in it then. That had been months before his dream featured himself flying, all-seeing and never-tiring, always on the wings of a crow. As the bird, he knew a great deal, far more than a boy his age felt he should, like someone had told him a story only to reveal it was about him all along. It made his skin crawl, too tight for his bones. He would have to seek out Jojen and ask him of his dreams. Bran would ask if he still dreamt of flying as a crow and what his bird eye view showed him, for Bran saw far too much. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've planned out the rest of this fic and the sequel that follows. Yall ready? I'm gonna be updating the tags soon.


	4. Young and Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets fucked and that's about 90% of this. Check that rating bump fam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nobody grows, nobody makes the rules  
> Nobody's home, don't wanna stay in school  
> I'm ready to go, I'll be your favourite fool  
> Nobody knows I am unbreakable
> 
> I'm young and I'm stupid  
> I need a rush, some luck, some love when I'm unsteady  
> Cause I'm young and I'm ruthless  
> I'm gonna live by the gun and die when I am ready
> 
> Everything is blowing up, and I don't wanna let it  
> I've been so quick to grow up and I don't really get it  
> Everybody's telling me the person I should be  
> But I just wanna see the world and be a human being  
> Love, hate, make money  
> And spend it all on alcohol  
> And I can't wait, I'm running  
> I feel my mind's about to blow, show, show, show"  
> -Young and Stupid, Raleigh Ritchie  
> (these are song lyrics not poetry btw)

### Robb

 

Late in the week, Robb got a call from Jon requesting he come home. His little brother had a scheme, it seemed, and wanted his help. It had made Robb laugh, for it had been a while since Jon had gotten into any sort of trouble he was known for when they had been children. Robb had kept him safe of course, as any older brother would. But their rambunctiousness had inspired similar antics in Arya and Bran and Catelyn enacted certain rules.

_"Not the usual stomping grounds," Robb said when Jon hinted at venturing into Flea Bottom. "My, you must have something good planned."_

_"I'm trying to get fucked," said Jon, and Robb had to cringe for a small moment, hearing such a thing from his younger brother. "By a stranger," Jon said, probably to fill the pause._

_"I fucking guessed that," Robb had said, though he quite honestly hadn't. It was not Jon's usual endeavour. "Why do you need me to accompany you, again? Didn't Sansa volunteer?" She lived in the same house as Jon, it would've made much more sense for her to join Jon._

_"She's still grounded from last weekend, and hopefully you'll be going home alone, without me," said Jon. Robb sighed but gave in. He hadn't visited in a while anyway, and missed them all a bit._

So he bought a train ticket and suffered through the four hour trip from Dragonstone to King's Landing. The boat from the island to Rook's Rest had been tolerable, given the overcast, but Robb never enjoyed trains. A lot of waiting is what it was. He stared out the window for most of the ride, music in his headphones, and paid no mind to the other passengers until the Dragon's Gate came into view.

Jon offered to meet him at the station on the Street of Sisters but Robb shrugged him off.  He called a car from the family company shortly before he stepped off the train and was happy he did so. Traffic was at a standstill through Flea Bottom for long enough to frustrate his driver significantly. Robb sat back and waited.

The rise of Visenya's Hill was breathtaking as they came up the Street of Sisters. In Robb's opinion, the glint of the winter sunset against the Great Sept was humbling and perhaps the reason why the followers of Seven had chosen the hill as their holy site. Robb didn't much believe in the Seven, much preferring the Old Gods of the North as his father before him, but that did not mean the architecture failed to impress him as well.

It didn't take long for the car to pull up to the Stark gated grounds. "No need," said Robb, when his driver rolled the window down and moved to punch the code in. He grabbed his bag of things and hopped out, keying through the small side gate as the black car pulled away.

Jon was already standing on the front porch as Robb made his way up the short driveway. His dark hair was wet which hopefully meant he had followed Robb's advice of showering and thoroughly scrubbing his body all over.

"You look terrible." Jon grinned and leant in for a hug.

"You smell like roses." Robb squeezed him around the middle, appreciating the small height he still had on his little brother. "What the fuck did you put in your hair?" he tried to stick his nose in but Jon quickly pushed him off. He was blushing as he led Robb into the kitchen and Robb knew he couldn't let it go. He was intercepted by Sansa, however, who had been waiting for him to arrive as well.

"I had him use my conditioner," she said, matter-of-fact. Jon rubbed his pink face and his flaming cheeks especially, clearly suffering. "Do you think he should put his hair up or leave it down?"

"I wasn't aware we were helping you dress for the night too," Robb said to Jon.

"If he chooses for himself he'll wear all black." She tugged Jon towards the stairs.

"Fair enough," said Robb, and helped her shoo Jon to where he belonged.

"Being ganged up on wasn't what I had in mind," said Jon, trudging up the stairs between them.

Sansa said, "I think it's exactly what you had in mind."

Robb pinched Jon's butt to make him scurry. Jon yelped.

"Where are Mom and Dad?" Robb asked.

"Official meeting between the Board of Directors and the Council of Free Folk," said Sansa. "There's been trouble beyond the wall and even in Last Hearth, I think."

"Damn," said Robb, relieved.

"They probably won't be back until 8 or 9, and you'll be out by then."

Robb knew they'd need a good amount of time to find a good place to drink for the night while Jon scoped out the crowd. They crowded into Jon's room.

 Sansa quickly cast open the closet and turnt to Jon. "Pick out your best options." She sat back on Jon's bed next to Robb.

It took about three tries for Jon to get any sort of colour in his outfit choices. Sansa sighed each time. "You look like you're headed for the fucking Watch," she said.

"What about that red sweater?" Robb pointed.

"But not with those trousers." Sansa stood, and had Jon sit next to Robb. It was what she wanted all along, no doubt. With new control, she pulled out two or three outfits for Jon to consider.

One was vetoed immediately because Jon found the boots uncomfortable. Sansa insisted Jon try the last two outfits on before throwing them out as well. Robb laughed, watching Jon abscond to the bathroom they used to share.

"So how's Dragonstone," asked Sansa, settling in next to him for the runway show.

"Windy and wet," said Robb.

"Have you seen the Prince? The castle?"

"Aye, both regal in their own ways," he said, and Sansa's eyes brightened. He knew she thought great things of nobility,  their own lineage and in others. The Targaryen lineage was certainly a compelling one; he could not blame her for her fascination. "Viserys is quite tall," he added, "A bit taller than I, but not much."

Jon emerged from the bathroom. "These pants are too tight."

"They look good to me," said Sansa.

"Agreed," said Robb. "

"I do like the sweater," said Jon, which made Robb smile with pride.

"Next," said Sansa. Jon retreated with new clothes.

"Is he as handsome as his brother once was?" Sansa asked. They had all grown up hearing tales of the ill-fated Prince, beautiful and beloved by the smallfolk in ways his senile old father had not been.

"No," said Robb, "and not as tall either, by my guess." Sansa frowned and lost some of her energy for the subject, and Robb wasn't pressed to continue either. There were many who would see the young Targaryen's on the throne, but Viserys was not nearly as attractive a candidate for the Throne as Rhaegar had been. The lost Prince had long since been declared murdered according to official sources. Still, Sansa loved the royals and at the very least Robb found them intriguing and appreciated the few opportunities he had to meet the Crown Prince.

Jon exited the bathroom and quickly put his hands in the pockets of his jeans, leaning back on his heels.

Robb snorted. "You don't like it, do you?"

"Doesn't this make me look pale?" said Jon, picking at the light blue of his shirt.

"You are pale," said Sansa.

"Change back to the first one," said Robb.

"Do you want any lift in your boots?" Sansa asked. Jon had time to grow still, sure, but Sansa stood taller than him after so many years and Robb doubted Jon would gain much height.

"No." Jon closed the door to the bathroom behind him. Robb shrugged at Sansa's look. She pulled out a few alternative shoe options and let Jon pick what he wanted most.

"So this is what I'm wearing?" said Jon, doing a spin for them in the middle of his bedroom. The dark red pattern suited Jon's darker features and the looseness of the sweater balanced out the tightness of his trousers. Robb nodded approvingly.

"You never answered me about his hair," said Sansa. At the moment it was just a dark toss of curls that met Jon's shoulders but fell no further. She put her fingers in it and scratched Jon's scalp.

"Down," said Robb, before Jon could answer for himself.

"Pull the top back, maybe?" she said, running her fingers through the top of Jon's hair and pulling it away from his face. Jon was again silent under all the attention, only squirming ever so often with what Robb assumed was nerves for the evening.

"Jon?" asked Robb.

"Down is fine," said Jon, and Sansa let all of his hair fall from her hands before running her fingers through it again. Jon soaked it up, a dopey look overtaking his face.

"Run a comb through it and I'll help Robb pick out his outfit," said Sansa.

"I've got a blunt, too," said Robb.

"Jon, join us in Robb's room when you're dressed." She grinned.

Robb laughed and led the way.

 

### Jon

 

Jon was thankful for the weed to calm his nerves before they even landed in a good bar. Flea Bottom had numerous seedy venues to choose from but Jon didn't want to be _murdered_ just taken home and taken care of. His stomach twisted at the thought. It was terribly unsafe and yet he was doing it anyway. Drogo did it all the time, he remembered, but it didn't really help.

His trousers were still a bit tight on his ass. He rarely wore this pair because of it, despite how well nice they made him look. Sansa had made comments when he'd worn them in the past, Jon should've known she'd pick them out for tonight. She'd selected a sleek undershirt, one of the athletic ones he wore when running in the evenings, and a pair of black boots as well. Jon hadn't fully appreciated the extra layers until they trekked between bars in search of the right atmosphere, arms linked.

Jon didn't think Sansa and Robb were being fair, however. Robb had dressed in his best, sans anything too flashy and expensive, and outshone Jon by walking beside him. He was beautiful, tousled red hair like Catelyn's and flaunting Tully height too. Ned never mentioned his mother but Jon assumed she was quite short, given his own stature compared to other Starks. With his dark features, Jon looked like a Stark but he must have his mother's height.

A curse, Jon deemed it, though it did mean the two of them could comfortably wrap arms around each other during their adventure. Of that, Jon could not complain.

They found a crowded pub on the Hill of Rhaenys, far below the Dragonpit and the wealthy sectors surrounding it. Jon could appreciate the sight of the restored dome against the stairs and moon but was happy to escape the chill of the night. They claimed a spot at the bar and called for a round of drinks.

"I didn't even know this place existed," said Robb. Jon cast his eyes about the room, knowing Robb would as well. He wanted to get a better look at the orange-lit interior and hoped to spot the bathroom early too.

"The Huntsman has too many people we already know," Jon reiterated.

"Meet new people, get new experiences." Robb winked at him over the top of his pint and Jon look away. It was foolish to be embarrassed by the idea now, currently waist-deep in his own plot. He hoped to get rid of his loneliness and his horniness in one go if he found the right person. There were quite a few people their age mingling in the crowd around the bar and moving on the poor excuse of the dancefloor. Jon lifted his pint and downed most of it.

"Any prospects?" asked Robb, as if they had been there for more than twenty minutes. Jon couldn't fathom moving so quickly, short of locking eyes with someone meaningfully from across an entire room.

"No," he said.

"Take some shots with me, loosen up." Robb held a hand up for the bartender.

Jon swept his eyes over the room again, looking down the bar at the long line of people out for the night. Someone had ordered food a few seats down and he could smell it and it made him crave chips. Instead, Robb put a shot glass in his hand and started counting.

"One, two, three." They both snapped their heads back. Jon cringed on the swallow and immediately followed it with a sip of his pint, a habit he had learnt from Robb himself.

"I'm gonna dance," said Robb.

"You can't be serious!" Jon looked out over the semi-hazardous, full-to-capacity dance pit, overtaken by drunken and overzealous fools.

Robb gave him a look that told him he was being silly. "How exactly are you supposed to talk to anyone else if we're practically holding hands?" He had a point and Jon had to admit it. It wouldn't work if it looked like they were here _together_.

Robb put another shot glass in his hand. "One more. One, two, three!"

"Fucking hells," spit Jon. His mouth burned. Robb slapped him on the back and disappeared, slipping into the flow of the dancefloor with ease. The area was much more Robb's scene, Jon would admit. He often felt more comfortable with a less energetic, less obnoxious crowd.

Jon slipped from the bar and moved to the back of the pub. He didn't want to dance, as jittery as he felt. He circled a few times with no real aim, clinging to the sides of the room to avoid the dancers. It was difficult to focus beyond staring at different people. He saw Robb a few times, first alone and then quickly with new friends as Robb was oft to be found.

Jon landed back at the bar, for better or worse. The bar crowd was older, a bit rougher, less energetic as it were, on a night like this. He lingered near some people his age, eyeing their plates of food with wide, envious eyes before turning away. This brought his attention to a man sitting at the other end of the bar, staring at him. It was the kind of gaze Jon wasn't entirely used to, one he wasn't sure he should be wary of or not. The man had a wild look about him too, from his hands to his hair. Big, red. There was drink dribbling down through his fiery beard.

Jon looked down and angled himself away from the bar, moving to circle the room again. Despite feeling a pull to return to the bar, Jon took his time and lingered to trade niceties and chitchat with zero intent. He couldn't remember anything he said once it left his mouth. His head had long since hazed, leaving him warm, loose, and almost heavy.

When he paused by the hallway to the restrooms, Jon could feel the same intensity and knew before looking up the man was staring again. He had followed Jon, tracked him through the chaos of a warm pub on a cold winter night. Jon was further away and still, he could see the whites of the man's eyes, pinned as he was by them.

Again, Jon weaved through the throng, this time retreating to the bar but placing himself closer the intense man. There could be no harm in new attention, not with Robb here. There had to be a reason he wanted Jon to notice him, to come closer as Jon did. Jon prayed to the gods Old and New he was not mistaken and looked across the wooden corner of the bar, past other patrons congesting around the taps and the tv screens featuring the latest games and player stats, past the last small bit of distance between them, and met those piercing eyes again.

They were blue. Jon liked to say he had no preference, no types. It was a blatant lie and one Sansa had discussed quite a few times in the aftermath of his breakup with Daenerys. Jon could not deny it now. The absolute enrapture with which he looked over the man's face should've been embarrassing, and would've if not for the two shots Robb had given him, the pint, the blunt from earlier, and the way the man stared right back. His orange hair tumbled away from his face, covering his shoulders and part of the pelt over his back. He looked so broad simply sitting in his seat, taking up so much room for himself. Inviting Jon to enter it.

It made Jon's stomach twist in strange ways, made this all feel like the right course of action. Heat rose to his cheeks and his ears and he forgot all at once of food or drink and wanted very much to see those blue eyes up close, to run his fingers through the pelt to see if it was genuine, to know if the man smelt as much like the North as he appeared to.

 Jon made a spot for himself directly to the man's left, leaning on the bar and calling for a pint he didn't intend to finish. He twisted, setting his hip on the wood and finally, finally taking the man in up close. He had crows feet around his eyes and the almost-feral expression on his face seemed to be permanent. Jon found he didn't mind, for the man was handsome and maybe old enough to be his dad or at least a hot uncle, and completely, enticingly, foreign to him.

 For his part, the man seemed content to look and be looked upon, for he ran his eyes up and down Jon with blatant hunger, with an appreciation Jon had not felt in a long time. It made him thankful for his put-together appearance, for the especially bouncy curls Sansa had cared to style into his hair and the hug of the trousers around his thighs. Jon was thankful to have left them behind for they made him look quite bookish, but now he almost wished to have his glasses to shield from the intensity. It took a certain level of anonymity, of newness, for this level of evaluation, and Jon sucked the fresh approval up like marrow from the bone.

 "I was wondering when you'd perch on my arm." He sounded Northern, Northern enough to make Jon's heart ache. He wondered if the man had come south for the winter, as many in the north did, and if Jon could be the one to warm his bed.

 "You're from the North," said Jon, and he wanted to kick himself for it. It wasn't the best opener, nor was it entirely friendly, inviting. It was something he had to work on, Robb said. The man laughed and Jon was ashamed to say he even liked the look of the man's teeth.

"Aye?" He grabbed Jon's hand, pulling him closer, against his leg, his side. He wrapped an arm around Jon's waist and the heat of him seeped through Jon's layers of clothing. "You're Northern too, boy." It was not farfetched to see Jon's colouring for what it was, to hear the slight accent Jon often forgot he had. Jon was pinned by his certainty and the real truth to it and cast his eyes down to his drink escape such a sure gaze.

Jon needed to find a place for his right hand, held dangerously close to the man's lap. The mere idea of touching his thigh set Jon's ears aflame so he chose to wrap it around the man's shoulders. It felt like straddling a furnace. Jon could smell him now too, his nose so close to the man's hair and neck. He smelt of the North as Jon hoped, of fresh snow and bitter wind he wouldn't find in the south. He also smelt of beard oil and ale, and Jon reached for his own pint when it arrived to keep himself from wrapping completely around the man and tasting as a large part of him wanted.

 "I'm Jon Snow," said Jon. Any good man would take what he needed from it. Folks didn't care about bastards unless you came from a noble house, like Jon's. A pretty bastard like Jon would probably marry into another family, using his illegitimacy to allow his spouse to keep their lands and titles when otherwise they would be surrendered to a legitimate spouse. It may even unite house Stark with his new family if needed.

 "Tormund Giantsbane," said the man, and he didn't seem to care who Jon might be. Tormund was a proper Wildling name from what Jon knew and a nice sounding one at that. Jon rolled it over in his mind a few times, quite pleased.

 "You've been staring at me a while," said Jon, already looking at something above the bar and sipping his drink. Tormund left his arm around Jon's waist though, not put off by his conversational skills. The man's fingers found the seam between Jon's trousers and his undershirt and lay over the skin of his hip, pulling his shirt up to sneak his fingers further underneath.

 "Aye," said Tormund, "Who is the other boy?"

 It seemed an odd question to ask but Jon didn't see the harm in an honest answer, standing so close and looking into Tormund's blue eyes. "My older brother."

 Tormund squeezed him tighter and closer still. "Thought you might be lovers. Glad your not." Jon had to laugh a bit when he wiggled his eyebrows. "But I also thought you might have a thing for red hair 'n blue eyes."

 Jon bit his lip and snuck his right hand into the man's hair. He couldn't keep his eyes on one place for long, fascinated as he was with the red storm of hair in his grasp, the crows feet he spotted whenever the man smiled, the sky blue of his eyes, and the pull of his lips whenever he spoke and Jon dug this hole deeper and deeper.

 "Maybe just a small weakness." Jon leant closer until he could smell Tormund's breath and feel the heat of it on his face and neck. Tormund discarded his ale in favour of pulling Jon in fully by his nape. His lips were wetter than Jon usually liked and parts of his beard were sticky but the initial touches were slow, searching and hot enough to make Jon's stomach coil. Then Tormund angled Jon's head the way he wanted and it was like being eaten alive, for it sucked the air from Jon's lungs and the sense from his head, rendered his fingers numb from the shock of it. Already too much and not enough, when Tormund's fist tightened in his hair Jon felt his cock twitch against Tormund's thigh.

 "What's your aim, boy?" Tormund kissed his way to Jon's ear and made a home there the same way his hand made a home tangled in Jon's scalp. Jon was tempted to throw a leg over and sit on Tormund's lap, let him move Jon's legs and arms however he liked and languish in the pleasure of being controlled, held. "Want me to take you home proper? Buy you drinks, drag you outback, stuff my cock down your throat?" Jon didn't think his face could get any redder. He could barely hear the TVs, the conversations around them, over the pulse in his ears.

 "I want you to take me home, and then put your cock in my throat." He reached down and squeezed Tormund's thigh, first to steady himself and then to appreciate the bulk of it. "But first I need to call Robb and make sure he knows I'm leaving." Jon had no idea where Robb had ended up for the evening but he figured Robb knew exactly where he was. He'd probably leave when Jon did, given the time.

Tormund raised a hand for the bartender. "Do it." The way he said it made Jon lose his train of thought for a few seconds. He liked it, maybe a bit too much. Then Jon turned away and did as he was told. His fingers were clumsy on the buttons, his brain distracted by the small touches Tormund kept placing to the small sliver of skin at his waistline.

Robb picked up on the first ring but didn't emerge from the crowd with his eyes on Jon, which Jon counted as a blessing. It was strange to hear the same bar music through the call, tinny and weak as it was. "What's his name?"

"Tormund Giantsbane," said Jon, and as he did Tormund stood and turned Jon's neck again as he liked. He was taller than Jon by a head and simply leant down to bite and kiss him as he wanted while he had to wait.

"Where's he live?" Robb asked. Jon squirmed but did make any real moves to escape Tormund's hold.

"Where do you live?" Jon asked, and Tormund laughed as he unbuckled one of many furs from around his shoulders.

"Beyond the Wall, boy." He placed the fur around Jon's shoulders. "But I'm taking you to the Iron Gate Inn. I have a room there." Jon relayed this information to Robb as Tormund patted his shoulders and down his back, then squeezed his ass without shame.

"He seems friendly," Robb commented.

"Okay, thanks for your help, I'll text you tomorrow!" Jon quickly hung up and Tormund ushered him out the door. Jon feared he would lose his adrenaline or his momentum once they no longer stood so close or touched each other, but just Tormund's hand on his shoulder through the car park was enough to keep Jon's nerves a lit.

Then Tormund held his hand and Jon was scared of sweating too much, of turning the other man off. What if _Tormund_ lost interest? They had to catch a short train, Jon knew, and as loose-limbed as he felt in the night air, he didn't feel confident enough to make moves on a train. Even if it wasn't a busy hour, Jon wasn't keen on sitting half in the man's lap in a well-lit train car and chasing his tastebuds.

He need not worry. They simply flashed their cards and boarded and Tormund gave him the window seat. It wasn't busy, either, with other passengers sleepy, drunk, or minding their own business. Tormund knew it too. He wrapped an arm around Jon's shoulders again and his other hand found Jon's knee. Then the inner seam of his trousers, tracing up his leg and spreading heat as he went. Jon sunk further into his seat and into Tormund's side, his gaze cast down on the man's questing hand.

Jon didn't know what to do with his hands. He touched Tormund's hand on his leg and the man's knee and bit his nails into both, restless, though he didn't know why. Tormund cursed and pinched his thigh. "Use your words."

"I want you to hold me down and fuck me." Jon shivered at the idea of being weighed down, caged in, fucked senseless by the man's bigger body. He caught an older woman a few seats down gaping at him before she quickly turnt away. He should care more about it. Couldn't they get kicked off the train? Tormund didn't seem to care so Jon probably didn't have to either.

"We can do that, boy." Tormund seemed keen on petting him under the small table. Intent on not cumming in his pants, Jon intercepted Tormund's hand and wound their fingers together again. Tormund didn't protest in any way. He spent the remainder of the short train ride sniffing and kissing Jon's hair and biting at his neck and cheeks. Jon squirmed and gasped in his seat the whole way but endured, flushed, quiet, and without reproach from other passengers.

Jon rarely visited Flea Bottom or this side of King's Landing in general, and thus their station was completely new to him. He didn't know any of it and doubted he would remember this trek through it either. He kept swaying on his feet and smiling every time Tormund opened a door, squeezed his hand, said something interesting and forgettable about the buildings around them. Jon almost couldn't hear what he was saying through the blood in his ears but gods was the man breathtaking in the streetlights.

The large hotel Tormund led him to sat next to the Iron Gate, as promised, and the area surrounding was well lit for frequent travellers. It was almost completely empty on the inside due to the late hour which Jon appreciated it, other than a few bellhops and cleaning staff lingering the lobby. The elevator ride was quiet, interrupted only by Tormund pressing Jon against one of the walls and kissing him again. He was insistent, his tongue slow and searching in Jon's mouth. Jon wanted to wrap all his limbs around the big man, didn't want clothes between them anymore. Then the door dinged and Tormund pulled away, leading him by his hand again.

Tormund practically kicked his room door open and dragged Jon in, flicking a small light on and already pushing Jon back against the door as it closed. He immediately clawed at Jon's fur cloak and sweater beneath. Jon reached up and unbuttoned the man's jacket, then tugged his shirt from his trousers with obvious intent. They parted just long enough to collide back together, bare-chested. Tormund resumed where he had left off, licking at Jon's tongue and tugging at his hair until he pulled Jon's head back. Then he paid attention to the line of Jon's throat, the twitching muscles of his shoulders and his now bared chest.

Jon was content to run his hands all over exposed skin, clawing and squeezing where he wanted, hissing and cursing when Tormund bit him or stopped to suck a bruise into being. Jon ground forward, panting, and was rewarded by the hot press of Tormund's hips against his own. He had to close his eyes for fear of it being too much. "Is this why they call you Giantsbane?"

The older man laughed, one hand still on the hollow of Jon's throat. "Kneel and see for yourself." Tormund kicked his cloak into place on the floor between them. It was an open invitation to fulfil Jon's wish from earlier. His grip on Jon's hair had even softened, his fingers no longer wrenching Jon's head back and baring his throat.

Jon opened his eyes and nodded, knowing the man would feel it. Tormund grinned at him and helped him balance as he went to his knees. "That's my pretty boy," said Tormund, winding his fingers into Jon's hair to run his hands through the whole of it. Jon had close to his eyes again and settle back on his heels, letting his head and shoulders move with the natural rhythm of being pet and lavished on. His trousers were tight and uncomfortable but Jon didn't have the mind to remove them without being told first.

"Oh, you love this, don't you?" Jon nodded again, blinking his eyes open to stare blearily up at Tormund. The man was still smiling and tracing his thumb over Jon's lips with one hand, the other one his belt. Jon reached to help him though his fingers fumbled. "Do you have a safeword?"

Jon had thought about such a thing before tonight, had even thought of something witty when Robb had asked him earlier in the evening. His mind went blank now, however, all thoughts on the pierced cockhead greeting him, now at his lips, that had his mouth watering. He was a bit upset to not get a full look at it, to not get his hand around it, before Tormund pulled back and turned Jon's face up. "Safeword, baby boy?"

"Uh... Red, sir?"

"Good boy." He pulled at Jon's bottom lip with his thumb. "I'm gonna choke you with cock, so you won't be able to say anything." Jon swallowed thick through a dry mouth, staring upwards with devotion and confusion all at once. "So tap my leg if you need to stop or breathe. But I want you to take it all, can you try for me?"

"Yes, sir." Jon squirmed watching Tormund stroke himself a few times, aware of the grip in his hair still holding him exactly where Tormund wanted him. He held his tongue out in invitation, letting Tormund pinch the wet muscle between his fingers without so much as a whine. Tormund pulled his tongue down, opening his mouth further, and lay his cock there for a moment. It was impossibly wide even at the tip and Jon's was ruined from the first few eager licks. It was salty and clean, and Tormund let him take his time to explore. Then he stilled Jons' head and, staring at the way Jon's lips stretched, eased in slow before easing back again.

This lasted for a few careful thrusts, wetting and opening Jon's mouth and throat till he gently gagged each time and there was no room for him to breathe. Jon lapped at the thick length whenever Tormund pulled out enough for him to move his tongue. Cursing over Jon's eagerness, Tormund started to buck without as much control. It brought tears to Jon's eyes and a curl of heat to his belly. When he looked up through the next few thrusts into his mouth, his expression made the older man curse above him. Pride blossomed through Jon's chest and he closed his eyes again to concentrate on letting more and more of Tormund into his throat.

"What a pretty fucking picture," Tormund cupped Jon's cheek, touching the trails his tears had made. He popped the head of his cock back into the tight suction of Jon's throat and grunted, pausing there to appreciate the pressure even as Jon whined and continuously gagged around him. A fresh round of tears fell, and Tormund pulled back to let him cough and breathe.

"Colour?" He ran a hand through Jon's hair, pulling his head back to look into Jon's eyes.

Jon could barely smile in his state, lips numb and brain dopey with adrenaline and pleasure. "Green."

Tormund opened Jon's mouth and dipped his dick in enough to wet it again. Jon lapped at what parts he could reach, grasping at the man's thighs for balance. He dove to take Tormund's cock back in his throat only for Tormund to grip tight on his hair and tug him back. Jon whined, inarticulate through the pain of it, and tried again, slower this time, to better results.

"That's it, gentle now, you can take a bit more."

Jon nodded as best he could around a full cock. It hurt, stretched his lips tight and bruised the back of his *throat, but there was still more to go, more to take in, and Jon wanted it. Tormund fed it to him, increment by increment until Jon could feel wiry hair on his lips and the man's balls on his chin.

"That's perfect, my beautiful perfect boy." It was the exact praise Jon wanted and needed to balm the growing soreness of his throat. He hummed and sucked and soaked up the pet names and gentle touches to his ears, his lips, his face.

To Jon's dismay, Tormund didn't use his mouth much longer. When he pulled back and out, Jon leaned forward to follow him, mouth still wet and wide, pliant and perfect like he knew Tormund wanted. "You keep going I won't have anything for you," said Tormund, and Jon found himself blushing now despite it all. He wanted to feel it, to taste it down his throat, but he wanted other things tonight too. Jon could cum, and cum, and cum a third time in the same night if he worked hard enough. He wanted to give Tormund the same kind of thrill. It may not be bodily possible, something Jon hadn't thought of.

"Can't keep up with me, old man?" he prodded, already grinning when Tormund pulled his hair tight and slapped his dick against Jon's cheek.

"Get on the bed." Tormund pinched his ass through his trousers when he sprang to his feet and ran. He flopped on his back and was wriggling to get his legs free of his pants when Tormund joined him. The man had shed the last of his clothes and even in the small light of the hotel room, Jon thought he was handsome and even rugged. He helped Jon kick off his socks before making space for himself between Jon's ankles and running his hands up Jon's legs. He still had that feral expression on his face, still stared at Jon with an intensity that made him shiver. It was scary to be bare in front of someone else after so long, even another man. He watched Tormund look him over and couldn't resist the urge to cup his cock, to hide it, for it certainly wasn't as impressive as Tormund's and Jon knew it. "None of that now," Tormund knocked his hand away and took him in hand without preamble.

"Fuck," Jon hissed, and Tormund went to spit in his hand before thinking better of it. He leaned down and sucked Jon down to the root, an arm laid across his hips to keep him from jackknifing off the bed. "Fuck!" Jon couldn't think for a few seconds, couldn't breathe.

Tormund came up smiling and kissed him. "You've got a pretty little cock, boy." He rolled Jon's balls in his hand and kissed him again. "Still want me to hold you down and fuck you senseless?"

"Yes, sir."

"Roll over then, sweet boy." Tormund was already pushing at his hips, turning them as he wanted, so Jon simply followed. He gripped a pillow to his chest, nerves still running rampant with nothing to focus on now. He very much preferred having his eyes on his lovers, to know what was coming, but he trusted Tormund with his safety so far and couldn't see any reason not to now.

Tormund squeezed his ass cheeks with both hands and said something Jon couldn't understand. A sharp slap followed, one Jon was not prepared for, and he yelped. "If you’re keen to get spanked, I'm first in line."

"Oh my god." Jon buried his face into the pillows and ignored the way Tormund laughed. He felt Tormund move around, then heard the pop of a cap, and squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could.

Tormund rubbed the globe of Jon's ass with one hand. "You'll have to relax." Jon gulped a few deep breaths and forcibly uncurled his arms and shoulders. The line of tension down his back relaxed minutely as well. Tormund placed a kiss above the swell of Jon's ass, on his lower back, and Jon flushed like a maiden. He'd had Tormund's dick down his throat and this was still too embarrassing. Tormund kissed up Jon's back, placing stray bites as he went.

"Relax, beautiful boy." He rubbed patterns into the back of Jon's hips with his thumbs, pressing firm on tensed muscles. Then, he reached around and fondled Jon for a few long minutes, long enough to have him gasping and squirming again.

Jon did his best not go stiff at the first cold slide of lube on his ass. The first finger pinched, foreign and brash in its carving of space from of his body. Jon panted but did not object, thinking back to the initial uncomfortable stretch in his throat that gave way to a grounded bliss.

"More," he said, but Tormund did not rush to give in to his pleas. They moved at Tormund's pace, slow and careful enough to make Jon tingle with anticipation down to his toes. Tormund's hands were thorough, broad and claiming but careful all the same. All for him. Such attention made Jon's head buzz.

A second finger breached him when the first intrusion no longer ached, and the third eventually followed suit. By then, Jon had drooled onto the pillow against his face and even bit it in his attempt to keep from cursing and squirming away. Tormund kept him pressed firmly against the mattress with a hand on his hip, and Jon moaned at the hot squeeze of it whenever he wriggled around too much for Tormund's liking.

"Please, please Tormund." Jon reached behind and grasped the man's wrist, grinding his cock down against the mattress while seeking the precise pleasure of Tormund's fingers at the exact same moment.

"I'm here, baby, come for me." Tormund kept massaging Jon's insides and letting him rut towards his orgasm until his eyes went white and sightless and he shouted, coming against the sheets. "There it is, such a good boy."

Tormund sounded so far-away suddenly like Jon was listening through cotton in his ears. He didn't have much time to recover before Tormund pressed his asscheeks open with two thumbs and slid his cockhead from Jon's balls to his spine, spreading slick.

"Breathe," said Tormund, at once pressing forward and entering Jon with all his ridiculous thickness. Fingers were only a modest teaser, with how the first contact sent lightning zapping down Jon's limbs and his brain tumbling. Tormund pushed in slowly and then pulled back, as he had when he prepared Jon's mouth, and even though Jon breathed a sigh of relief at the similar pattern it was all almost too much to handle, too much to breathe through.

Then Tormund lay over his back, pressing close as animals did during the act, and clasped a big arm around Jon's chest and shoulders to hold him close, hold him still. His fingers curled around Jon's neck, making his breath hitch, and squeezed experimentally. His other hand gripped one of Jon's wrists and kept it firm against the bed above his head. Tormund had him all wrapped up, squeezed and constricted in the exact way Jon wanted, unable to move an inch as Tormund did as he pleased.

He panted and cursed in Jon's ear until he sank to the hilt. Jon had tensed back up again, the pressure and strain proving too much to breathe through. He squeezed his hand around Jon's throat as he pulled out, cursing about how tight and wet the boy was for him. The pressure on his airflow didn't let up as Tormund fucked back into him and it was like being stabbed, forcing the last bit of air out of Jon's lungs and white noise into his eyes. His next inhale brought a frisson of pleasure through his spine and down to his toes. Jon reached up and tore his nails into the man's arm, thrusting himself back into Tormund's next movement and fully appreciating the sting of it.

Jon felt his orgasm slowly build only to plateau. He wanted to reach down to touch himself but couldn't move even one arm without planting into a pillow. He had nothing to bite or rut against and didn't like how he couldn't hold onto Tormund as he wanted, couldn't kiss him. He didn't like the sterile smell of the pillowcases against his face either.

"Yellow," said Jon, though he was slightly afraid of what may happen, of how Tormund might react.

 The older man simply slowed his movements to a pause and leaned down closer to Jon's ear. "What's wrong, perfect boy? Tell me and we can fix it."

"I want..." Jon swallowed, still gripping the sheets in his hand. "I want to see your face. Can I flip over?"

Tormund pulled out, leaving Jon feeling a void, and nudged Jon's hip to signal him. Jon turnt and kept his eyes low, flushed with nerves, careful not to knock the man with his legs.

"Is that better?" Tormund ran his hand from Jon's ankle to his hip, gripping him firmly and pulling them snug together again. Jon couldn't help smile and nod and spread his legs wider, welcoming Tormund between them in the best way he knew how.

Tormund sunk his weight down as intended, smothering John into the bed sheets and pressing them together. Jon reached up and wrapped his arms around the man's shoulders to bring them ever closer. Then Jon ground himself upward, his cock spitting with his excitement and smearing precum on Tormund's stomach without shame.

Tormund took himself in hand and guided himself back to Jon's hole, pressing in a few times as if to test the waters. He leant back to squeeze a drop of lube on his big dick, Jon watching with hooded eyes all the while. When he sunk back down into Jon's space, Jon wrapped his legs tight around the man and tried to suck his tongue out of his mouth. Tormund grunted and bucked the first few inches into Jon's tight heat, punching a low moan out of Jon's mouth and into his.

"Perfect," repeated Tormund, and Jon bit at the man's lip, trying to bloody it. He scratched at Tormund's freckled shoulders too, intent on leaving his mark on such a handsome man. Tormund grew crazy with it, leaving welts and bites to mimic where Jon marked him, laughing and grunting and thrusting all the while. Jon might've laughed too if his own legs weren't comically up in the air, one pressed towards his head and the other around Tormund's waist.

Jon lay back and sank into the rhythm of the act, tangling his hands into Tormund's hair and moaning when the man pounded him just right. It built and built until it was too much and Tormund still wouldn't let him touch his dick, took it in his own rough hand and tugged it out of rhythm like an asshole. "Bloody gorgeous," said Tormund, leaning down to kiss Jon again. It sparked a heat within him and Jon came between them and all over Tormund's hand, head flung back shouting to the ceiling. 

Tormund cursed and moaned and bucked, riding through it, making Jon hiss and squeeze and squirm against the coil-tight pleasure. He slapped the man's back several times in retaliation, keening through every thrust Tormund gave him until it was just one long, wavering note bit out through Jon's clenched teeth, until he didn't think he could stop, not until the onslaught was over and Tormund had cum. Tormund fucked in particularly hard, grunting each time, before pressing Jon into his arms so completely and going still. Jon flushed at the heat of the man finishing inside him without a barrier in the way, knew Robb would berate him for it if he ever found out. But Jon didn't mind, even liked it a lot, and he loved the weight of Tormund pressing him into the mattress, wanted to fall asleep like this if they got Tormund's dick out of his ass first.

"Hey, hey." Jon prodded him, and Tormund eased out and onto the bed beside him at his insistence. He stood and Jon watched his ass as he crossed the room to turn off the light. In the darkness Jon hesitated, listening Tormund make himself comfortable and wondering if he wanted to cuddle. Then he flushed, feeling silly for thinking such a thing, and rolled over to face away.

"Get what you want from me, did you?" said Tormund. Jon looked over his shoulder at him to see the man laying on his side, highlighted only by the moon, clearly staring at Jon again. Jon rolled back over completely, let Tormund scoop him up and drag him closer until he was right against the man's side. "You can leave whenever you want." Tormund kissed the top of his head. "But I'd like to buy you breakfast in the morning."

Jon nodded, his cheek against Tormund's warm chest. The man played with a curl of hair and ran a big hand over Jon's shoulders. The heater across the room kicked to life and the motor filled the silence. Jon didn't regret it, regret any of it, and he wanted more. Later. Jon found himself drifting to sleep, utterly content with how Tormund pet his hair and his back for a long while in the dark of night. 

 

### Arya

 

It was barely daybreak when Arya left her bedroom, boots in her hand. Nymeria, Ghost and Summer were the only other occupants awake. Arya shushed them when they found her creeping around the kitchen. Her parents had stayed out later than planned last night, which meant they'd both be taking a late morning as well. Arya hoped to be out the door when they awoke.

With her bag packed and Nymeria beside her, Arya left the Stark home behind. Nymeria's presence complicated the commute but made Arya feel infinitely safer travelling to Flea Bottom. Alone, the journey could prove perilous on foot. The direwolf, ever-growing to their mother's dismay, made for perfect protection and determent against lower-browed types. Though Ned had gotten the pups for the family, Arya had always felt Nymeria was hers. Ghost spent more time with Jon than anyone, Summer refused to leave Bran's side since the accident, and Shaggywolf had loved Rickon more than anyone, so why shouldn't Arya claim Nymeria for herself? Only now, Nymeria was the size of a fully-grown dog and knew her parents worried about the direwolf blood within them.

The trek from Visenya's Hill to Gendry's scrapyard was a long one, especially as the sun floated higher overhead. She took care to avoid crowded areas and congested roads, and places where Golden Company guards roamed. Nymeria trotted along beside her and sniffed everything they came across, panting and slobbering through the south's warm winter heat. Arya made a note to pour some water out for her when they arrived.

She slipped through the small hole in the fence as she had the first time and each time since, and held the wire back for Nymeria to hop through as well. Gendry hadn't met the wolfhound yet and Arya was eager to see him scared shitless at the idea of her. She took out her knife and began carving her initials in the tires as she liked to, letting Nymeria sniff around as they waited.

They did not have to wait long. Gendry and his father often had eyes on the scrapyard, for it was a good place to scavenge for valuables. Gendry had confessed the hole in the fence was for him when he snuck away, had promised to make Arya keep it a secret. In exchange, Arya had declared she would come back to his scrapyard whenever she wanted and there was nothing Gendry could do about it.

"Took you long enough." He kicked a can in her direction but did not sound upset. Nymeria immediately made herself known, coming up behind Arya and growling at the newcomer. "What the fuck is that!" Gendry cried, already scurrying backwards. Nymeria barked and shifted into play, tumbling after him as he ran away.

"Don't show weakness!" Arya called, as Gendry yelled and cursed and tried to escape by climbing things and throwing trash over his shoulder. "Hey, don't hurt her!"

 _"Hurt her?!_ She wants to eat my fucking balls!"

Arya laughed but called Nymeria back as he wished. She was remarkably well-trained for her nature, as they all were, and Arya was quite proud of this fact. She saw Gendry's shellshocked face pop up over the hood of a stacked car.

"You command a monster." He called down from a few cars up.

"Her name is Nymeria." Arya pet her head.

"You still read fairytales?" Gendry laughed at her.

"Princess Nymeria was real, idiot, and Nymeria is a real direwolf, so you better shut it before she hears you and tears your throat out."

"She can't understand us!" He climbed down from his high perch and stepped closer, eyeing Nymeria with equal distrust and awe.

"Can too! She's smarter than you are!" Gendry came closer and Nymeria was happy to accept his pets once he stopped fearing for his fingers.

"Who's a good monster," he said, "who's a good monster?" He smiled, a bit dopey, and rubbed her big ears. Arya resumed carving her initials into a car tire.

"I don't usually like dogs, or wolves, in your case," Gendry confessed. Nymeria cocked her head at him.

"Weirdo." Arya ducked into the driver's window of an old car and dug around inside. "Wolves are the coolest animal."

"Wrong, dragons are the coolest. Their fire can melt any metal."

"Can't be too cool if they're all dead," said Arya.

"Everyone said direwolves were all dead too," said Gendry, and when Arya looked over at him he had one of Nymeria's giant paws in his hands. "Maybe magic is back in the world."

Arya bit her lip and thought about it for a moment. She trusted Gendry, and he believed in the superstitious even more than she did. She popped out of the car and back onto her feet. "My brother has greendreams."

Gendry stared at her, not noticing how Nymeria lost interest and moved away from him to investigate other parts of the scrapyard. "How do you know?" he asked.

"He told me. He doesn't believe it, but I know what they are."

He looked her up and down, brow furrowing. Arya sat down across from him on the dash of a car.

"Can you?"

She shook her head and Gendry frowned further. "I don't know a thing about greendreams," he admitted.

Arya groaned and laid back on the car hood, letting the sun warm her face even as a winter wind cut through the scrapyard. She heard Gendry come closer and then he sat next to her, close enough they could've leaned on and supported each other if they wanted. Arya didn't look at him, could practically hear him thinking.

"We could go to a Maester's Library, maybe find a book on it." Knowledge of magic was not for public use or leisure reading, but it wasn't a half bad idea.

"We might have better luck looking into warging." Gendry picked at the hem on his jeans. "It'd badass if you warged with Nymeria." He glanced back at her. "Have you ever tried?"

Arya shook her head.

"Has your brother?"

She shook her head again.

"What a waste."

Arya could only shrug, and Gendry let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgive any errors and happy father's day to Tormund amirite


	5. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes up to reality. Sansa gives the Targaryen royals a chance, and Sandor redeems(or damns?) himself.
> 
> "If you’ve been waitin' for fallin' in love  
> Babe, you don’t have to wait on me  
> 'Cause I've been aimin' for Heaven above  
> But an angel ain't what I need"  
> -Joji

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Independence Day from England @ the USA
> 
> Partially beta read, so there's that? B)

### Jon

 

The first time Jon jolted awake the room was completely dark and silent with the night. He didn't recognize it nor the bed he laid in. Through a brief flash of fear, he couldn't remember who was in bed behind him either. It was a task to recall most of the night before. His head felt heavy and Jon knew no more than a few hours could've past since they had fallen asleep. He could only remember the heat, like sitting in the sun, and not what part of his dream woke him. He rarely did. It was a small mercy and an ever-nagging source of curiosity in his daylight hours.

Tormund was most certainly a cuddler. Jon smiled sleepily at ever thinking otherwise. The man clung to him like a parasite, arms and legs wrapped around Jon in whatever way possible. His hold and his warmth was the only thing comfortable about the bed. He didn't wake when Jon turned his head to try and see his face. It was cast in shadow with Tormund's back turned against the windows and the pale streetlights outside. Still, he remained as handsome as Jon remembered him, and as Jon recalled their night together he wished it could be a longer affair, something grander.

Tormund didn't move in his deep, snoring sleep when Jon tried to readjust himself. With much effort and prodding to Tormund's limbs to get them to relax, Jon managed to roll over to face him entirely. Despite the curtains drawn for sunrise, Jon couldn't see much of his face beyond shadows. He squirmed his hand up and touched Tormund's brow instead, remembering the way he had stared at Jon. It had been a thrill to stare back, to circle closer and closer still. He wished he could do it again.

Jon pulled his hand back to his chest and ducked his head beneath Tormund's chin as felt natural. He bit his lip when he realized this position would only be comfortable for him if their legs intertwined, for he was sore and bitten all over and his hips ached from the tight angle within Tormund's arms. Face burning, Jon wormed his left leg between Tormund's. Their thighs slotted together. In his sleep, Tormund grunted as he curled his calf around the back of Jon's legs. Jon blushed, his cock twitching to life.

 _Gods, he's a furnace._ At any other point, Jon would be tempted to wake the man, no matter how little of their night had passed, to ask if it was too much to get fucked again in the middle of the night instead of falling back to his void of forgotten nightmares. He thought about a half-awake Tormund letting Jon slot their cocks together and taking them both in his hands, the slide of Tormund's piercing ring, his thick foreskin. It was heady enough to make Jon's head spin and his cock leak.

But it felt a bit too rude and assertive to wake someone with such a demand, and instead, Jon considered giving in enough to jerk himself off quietly. That sounded worse, for they would wake with Jon's mess added to the stickiness from the night before and then Tormund might _know_ he did it without asking. He was too tired to deal with such a turmoil in the middle of the night and thus vowed to ignore it. He fell asleep sometime after, his nose pressed delicately to Tormund's throat.

He woke once again to the mattress shifting and his limbs being moved. There was light behind his eyelids but he refused to believe it was morning. Tormund lay the blankets back over him and tucked a bit of hair behind Jon's ear. Then he left and Jon heard the shower turn on a moment later. Jon laid there, waiting for him to return, and made no attempt to open his eyes. His head ached and he was so, so thirsty, but it was too early to leave the bed.

He heard the bathroom door open and close, listened to Tormund pad around his room for a few minutes with no apparent purpose. Again, Jon wasn't motivated to open his eyes and see for his himself. When Tormund pulled the covers back and tucked his body close to Jon's again, Jon managed a low hum to acknowledge his presence. The older man squeezed him tight in response and kissed his ear, and Jon fell back to sleep.

The final time Jon woke it was due to the sunlight streaming in through the windows on the far wall. Tormund still lay behind him, one arm beneath Jon's head and the other petting the skin of his stomach beneath the blankets. Jon curled up and then stretched out, luxuriating in the warmth of Tormund's hold and the strength of it.

"Finally awake for me, then?"

Jon smiled against the skin of Tormund's bicep and the man had to feel it for he jostled Jon in a friendly way. "Aye? Is the little crow awake? He'll sleep the whole winter away, at this point."

"It's hibernation." Jon bit Tormund's arm and then leaned back into the man's chest. Rolling over to meet eyes felt too intimate, compared to the soft line of their bodies against each other. Rather than face his embarrassment, Jon chose to smother it.

"I don't think crows hibernate." Tormund pinched his nipple and Jon yelped, quickly slapping his hand away.

"This one bloody wants to," said Jon, ready to close his eyes again.

"Can't fuck you again if you're sleeping."

Jon would love to fuck Tormund again, wanted to suggest a long escapade between them as if they were meant to be together, as if he had started this with the long term in mind. He hadn't, but the idea of keeping Tormund around for another night, maybe another few weeks, appealed to him. Made his stomach twist into knots, in fact, and made him daring. "Could if you asked."

Tormund gave him a tight squeeze and bit at his ear. Jon laughed and wriggled, trying to escape only to feel Tormund constrict further around him. Jon relented, then quickly tried again, laughing right up until Tormund had a hand on his neck. It was easy to sink back into the familiarity, the thrill of it, easy for Jon to let his hips press back against Tormund's even as he pressed his throat forward against the man's hand. Tormund groaned and went with him, slowly rocking and choking him in intervals, reminding Jon how strong and big he was all at once.

"The more I know you the more I like you, Jon Snow."

Jon smiled. "Are you staying in King's Landing for long?"

"Aye, I'm visiting family ."

"Then you could get to know me a great deal," said Jon, "if that's what you want."

"That it is, dear boy." Tormund rutted against him once or twice more before slowing to a stop. He released Jon completely, in contrast to his words, and moved across the room. Jon watched him, clear-headed, and for the first time, he noticed how their clothes had been piled neatly sometime during the morning. He smiled, for it had to be Tormund's doing and it warmed his cheeks.

"Did you fold my trousers ?"

"The least I could do," Tormund grunted, already half-dressed for the day, and disappeared into the bathroom again. Jon very much didn't want him to put a shirt on.

He sat up on the bed, letting the sheets fall around him. His hair was a mess, he knew, and he tried to run his fingers through some of the worst of it. He caught Tormund standing in the doorway, washcloth in hand, staring at him as he did it. Jon cast his eyes down but did not object to the attention. Tormund cleaned his face and neck first, wiping away dried sweat and tears, and Jon found the treatment soothing.

Tormund ran the washcloth down with obvious intent, giving Jon time to protest before he was cleaning between his legs. Jon's ears flamed as Tormund moved his legs however he needed to reach Jon's balls and then flipped him onto his back to reach the dried mess between his asscheeks. Jon laid an arm over his face, unable to stand the embarrassment. When it was over and Tormund kissed the top of his head, Jon felt like he was floating.

Tormund chuckled and Jon heard the wet splat of him tossing the rag onto the bathroom floor. "You seem a bit out of it, boy."

"'M not." Jon pulled his arm from his face and laid it at his side. Tormund rummaged through a suitcase before he stepped close to the bed, a cellphone in one hand. With his free hand, he pet over the top of Jon's head and into his hair. Jon hummed his approval and they continued like this for some moments. Tormund tapped away with one hand with Jon content to just lie there and soak it up.

"Still want to join me for a meal?"

"Yes, sir." Jon grinned when Tormund noticeably shivered.

"You'll have to get dressed."

Jon cursed and rolled off the bed. Tormund sat in his place, still busy with his phone. Jon figured, given the bright sun outside, it was well into the morning and the man had things to attend to. He had already waited for Jon to wake up fully. Jon hopped into his pants and his too-tight trousers, then pulled on his undershirt. Instead of his own sweater, Jon eyed some of the clothes he could see folded and piled haphazardly in the man's suitcase, looking for something comfortable.

He dared tug on the most casual piece of clothing he could find: a grey sweatshirt. It was oversized for him, making him feel like a kid trying on adult clothes, but he liked the smell of it. Jon hoped that claiming it wasn't crossing any boundaries.

"You'll drown in that," said Tormund.

"Do you want me to take it off?" Jon already had the collar in hand, garment half over his head.

"No."

Jon pulled it back down. Tormund smiled and held a hand out for him. Jon took it and appreciated the dry weight of it in his own but did not sit on the bed as Tormund clearly wanted.

"Where's my phone?"

Tormund nodded to where his clothes had been folded and piled. Jon crossed the room and rummaged before finding his cell. After a moment of trying some of the buttons, Jon had to admit the battery must be dead after sitting all night.

"It's dead," he said. Tormund nodded silently, his eyes on his phone. Jon waited only a moment, not to be deterred. "If you want my number, I can give it to you."

Jon believed his offer to be quite clear and he left it up to Tormund. 'Seeing family' could mean anything, and it could mean something Jon shouldn't get deeper involved in. Tormund hadn't mentioned anything beyond clearly wanting to see him again and Jon wished to linger in ignorance for as long as he could, at least for the weekend.

"Aye, lad, I want you." Tormund held a hand out to him, giving Jon his full attention once again. He seemed to understand what it meant for Jon to hear it as many times as he needed. Jon took his hand and sat next to him, and Tormund went a step further and handed Jon his phone, already on the screen needed for a new contact. Jon ducked his head to hide his smile as he made one for himself and then sent himself a discreet text to have Tormund's contact as well.

"You'll never be rid of me now." He handed the phone back.

Tormund laughed and leaned down to kiss him, taking Jon's chin in hand to guide him where he wanted. He was interrupted by his phone going off in his hand, the obnoxious jingle filling the room.

Tormund swiped to accept the call. Jon froze at the picture taking over the screen, the name at the top.

"Ygritte?" said Jon, right as Tormund answered. They stared at each other for a split second and neither spoke. Jon could see the gears turning in Tormund's head. Ygritte's small voice came through the mic, angry for being ignored and no doubt interested in her name being passed around so casually.

"How do you know Ygritte?"

Jon swallowed around the lump in his throat. "We, uh, we competed against each other on school sports."

"Aye?" Tormund's voice was stern now as if he expected more of him.

"We were friends. How do you know Ygritte?" He didn't want to ask but he had to. They could be friends, could know each other through some wildling cause. Tormund was what, Ygritte's uncle? Certainly not her fucking _father_.

"She's my little sister."

Jon leaned away from the man's hold, stomach twisting. "Oh... This is bad."

Tormund frowned and put his phone back to his ear. Tormund didn't say much and when he did he spoke in that language Jon couldn't understand. It felt purposeful, secretive. Jon waited to hear his name, waited for Tormund to spell out his demise. No doubt Ygritte would have a lot to say about him, she had all the information from their failed romance barbed for appropriate use. Jon had _fucked her brother_ , a slight he never even imagined possible the night she had dumped him. The night he swore never to make her cry again. Would Tormund tell her?

Jon slipped from the bed. His every move felt watched, killing any lingering comfort Jon felt in the man's hotel room. It didn't take a genius to figure it all out. Tormund was in the south visiting family. Ygritte often spoke of a large family she had left beyond the wall for schooling. They even looked alike, for fuck's sake. Now they would talk and get to the bottom of it and probably both realise Jon had a type, yeah, but he was also damaged goods.

He knew when a welcome had worn thin, had learned to feel a shift of a room from a young age. Worst of all, he knew when it was time to make himself truly scarce, to not be seen again, and perhaps forget this whole, horrible accident had ever happened.

Tormund ended the call and the room fell into silence. Jon froze, shoes on and almost to the door. "I had no idea," is all he could think to say.

"How old are you?"

It wasn't the question Jon was expecting, and while he was inclined to be honest, he didn't like the tone Tormund had taken on, like a disappointed parent. "I'm not a child."

"Young enough for me to be your dad, then." Tormund shook his head and rubbed his face like it was some great issue. Jon couldn't handle it at all. His age wasn't the problem here.

"Oh, like that wasn't the fucking appeal last night? 'Boy' this and 'sir' that ?" Tormund looked taken aback and almost abashed, as he fucking should. Jon pinned him with a dark glare, hand now on the door. "You said I was perfect, you made me feel perfect-" He snapped his teeth shut to cut himself off from more embarrassment and shook his head minutely, disappointed in himself. "I didn't start this, _you_ did. You looked at _me_. Gods, fuck me for wanting to enjoy myself, and fuck you for making me feel bad about it!"

He slammed the door behind him and wasted no time disappearing into the stairwell. He didn't see much of as he made his way to the lobby. Tormund didn't run after him, not like Jon expected such a gesture now. The heavy foot traffic of the weekends filled the streets surrounding the Iron Gate granted him anonymity and the crowd of the station absorbed him without pause. He bought a ticket back to the Street of Sisters and sat, restless and wishing his phone was charged to pass the time.

He boarded his train and settled in, nerves finally simmering. The woman sat across from him gave a polite smile before glancing down at his neck and quickly glancing away. Jon didn't have to check to know he sported bruises of some shape and form, and ducked himself down into his collar and slumped into his seat. It was only then he realized he still wore Tormund's grey hoodie, that in his rush to get his shoes he had left his own pullover in the man's hotel room.

"Fuck me." He laid his head against the train window and closed his eyes.

 

 

### Sansa

 

Sansa's house arrest ended on the first weekend morning. Eager to get out of the house for the first time in a week, she had slept over at Jeyne Poole's that night. She had plans with Joffrey almost all day too, to lessen the time she had to be home during the weekend. "Home by dinner" was Catelyn's only request. Sansa knew Joffrey would hate it but accepted the terms without a fight.

Her mother promptly took Bran to a doctors appointment and Sansa doubted they would be back before dinner either. Arya was nowhere to be seen, and Jon hid in his room all morning. She had spotted him shuffling down to the kitchen without a sound once Catelyn left. He had bags under his eyes and his face was pale in ways she knew meant he had been up late, but he stared down at his feet as if kicked.

With a bit of time before Joffrey was meant to arrive, Sansa figured it couldn't hurt to knock on his door and ask to talk.

"Hey, Jon?"

"It's open." This surprised her but she entered his bedroom nonetheless. There was a towel shoved underneath the door and his room was chilly, the window cracked to let any smoke out. He had showered since returning home the morning before, at least, and was sitting on his bed with a bowl in one hand and his phone in the other. His large, over-the-ear headphones sat discarded on the blanket by his knees. Sansa moved them to sit as close as she wanted.

"Where's Ghost? Nymeria?" At least one of the young direwolves could always be found in Jon's room, to their mother's dismay.

"Dad has them for the day, thinks they make for a good 'backup'."

Sansa snorted. "Mom doesn't like them in the house."

Jon shook his head and they fell back to silence. Jon passed her the bowl a few times but Sansa turned it away, wanting to keep her head level. Jon needed it more for his apparent nerves anyways, and as much as he pretended to have a limitless supply, they all had a very much limited allowance.

"You look kinda blue, big brother. It isn't your colour." Jon only huffed at the joke, and Sansa frowned. It didn't take a genius to figure out he was upset and hiding away in his room. Arya would've told her if he had been grounded, if Catelyn had found out he hadn't stayed over at a friend's house and punished him harshly. Instead, he was sad, moping, and Sansa didn't quite know how to approach without upsetting him more.

"How was your night? You looked hot. You're welcome, by the way."

"It started off great." Jon chuckled darkly and plucked at his bedsheets. "Robb and I got pissed."

"Robb said you left with someone attractive."

"He was so handsome and kind." She watched Jon sink down further underneath his covers, seeming to want to disappear from the world. Sansa understood the urge, even as she didn't understand what upset him so.

"Did something go wrong? Did he hurt you in some way?"

"No. Yes. He was great. I'm the one who ruined it."

Sansa placed a hand on his leg. "I doubt you ruined it..."

 "I definitely did. I thought he was _perfect_ , and now I'm never going to see him again." Jon pressed his hands to his eyes. "Gods, I hope I never see him again."

 "You took a chance, I think you were brave." Sansa herself had very little experience going home with strangers from bars or parties. "Regardless of what happened, you're home now and you're safe. As you said, you never have to see him again."

 Jon rubbed over his face and nodded. He looked so sad beneath his covers. Without Ghost beside him, the large bed was mostly empty. Sansa sought ways to enliven him, to bring up his spirits and get him out of bed. Going out would do him some good, would keep him out of Catelyn's eye.

"Do you want to come to the Red Keep with me? Prince Viserys is arriving from Dragonstone for the first time since this summer. I planned on seeing the Royal Procession with Joffrey but we could go together, call a family car and get high on the way."

Jon gave her a sour look. "I don't want to see Dany."

"Oh, right." Those wounds were also still sore, scabbed but not quite scarred. She pat his leg and stood. "I'll give you the juicy details when I get back, then?"

He nodded and gave her a small smile. She hugged him and then left, closing his door behind her. She checked the clock in her bedroom wall and then busied herself with getting ready. It was nearing noon and Prince Viserys would be sailing in that afternoon to a welcoming committee of nobles, commonfolk, and political delegates from far and wide.

This would be the first time Crown Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys were set to speak together publicly since their arrival to Westeros some months before. Prince Viserys himself was rarely in King's Landing due to his pursuits at Dragonstone but that didn't stop him from being incredibly outspoken in his support for renewed Targaryen rule. It was rumoured he would speak on his future plans for the throne, his plans for his family, now that they were settled into their new lives. Some of the nobles houses stood on their toes in anticipation of any official announcement.

Going to school with Daenerys was strange. They did not share any classes and Sansa didn't see Dany very often at all. It wasn't common knowledge that her enrollment at Aegon's Academy was more a political move than an educational endeavour. Sansa honestly believed Dany had finished her education in Essos, as Jon had said, and attended more to make friends. It worked out that she could make friends with the next generation of noble houses while she was at it. It was not a selfish endeavour, it was even one Sansa could see herself making. It almost made Sansa wish she saw the Princess more often in Aegon's halls, made her wish to know the Princess better and even be her friend.

Joffrey hated the Targaryens, however, much like his father and mother and the whole rest of his family, which put getting close to Daenerys out of the question. Sansa's own father didn't speak of his opinions on the Targaryen family nor the surviving children, though she wondered how long he could remain neutral with Prince Viserys eyeing the Kingdom.

Still, Joffrey wanted to see Viserys in person, wanted to see him "man to man" as Joffrey had put it. Sansa had leapt at the chance herself, for Viserys may very well be their King in more than name if he had his way. Sansa did not spare much thought for what a King Viserys would look like for it was so unlikely but she imagined, hoped, he would act and live much like his brother if given the position.

A horn honked from the driveway out front. Sansa leaned to the window and peered down at the black Lannister car waiting for her, tugging on a pullover for warmth. They would be standing outside most of the day, and despite the decent weather she didn't want to be cold from inactivity.

She took the stairs two at a time and paused in the kitchen only long enough to grab her winter coat and boots. She already had a pair of earmuffs and gloves in her bag, as well as a small bottle of water and anything else she might need, really.

Joffrey got out to let her into the backseat. He sat with the Hound in the front. Sansa had once thought it to be a huge inconvenience, the fact Cersei forbade Joffrey to drive himself after a few mishaps and fender benders. Now, she was glad to never be alone in a car with him and appreciated Sandor's company more than any of the other Lannister guards, for he was so often with them, hovering in her life.

"I'm surprised your mother agreed to this," said Sansa, looking out the window as the streets passed.

"She didn't."

"What?"

"For all she knows, we're studying at your house." Joffrey acted as if it was nothing to lie to his mother in such a way. Sandor met her eyes in the mirror as he drove but said nothing. Sansa knew at once he didn't care as he wouldn't be the one who suffered the punishment. Joffrey did what he wanted, always, and taking away his car had only made him more secretive and resourceful. "I've told mother and father I wanted to make acquaintances with the Prince before I begin at Dragonstone and they have refused to make those connections."

"But you hate him."

"We'll be going to the same school, no doubt we'll live in the same social circles even." Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was true they would blend well by all social standards, Joffrey was highly competitive and already saw Viserys as a rival. Sansa wanted to go to Dragonstone too but doubted they would be very successfully socializing with Viserys on those grounds alone. Thousands attended the university, including Robb, who also hadn't seen much of the Prince. On top of that, Princess Daenerys had been at Aegon for some months and Joffrey had never made an attempt to befriend her, hadn't even wanted to know more about her from their schoolmates.

"He thinks he can just sail back to Westeros after seventeen years in political exile and reinstate the Throne without pause, I want to know what kind of man it takes to claim himself a Prince."

Such a title still meant something, even to Joffrey and his family. Sansa paused, wondering in that moment about Cersei's violent reaction to Joffrey disregarding her rules once again and 'endangering his life' by putting himself into the public sphere. Sansa had once heard Catelyn whispering with Aunt Lysa about how tightly Cersei controlled her children, how obsessive she was with them, how it might have adverse effects. Sansa never repeated those words to anyone else, least of all Joffrey.

Sansa glanced in the rearview mirror and caught the Hound's eyes again. He was no doubt unamused to be caught up in Joffrey's scheme but looked completely nonplussed, his grey gaze empty and his face calm and void. It was doubtful they'd be able to carve their way to the Crown Prince, based on the projected turn-out alone. They would both have to be prepared for an upset and raging Joffrey afterwards, it seemed.

"If you do not meet him today, you will still make his acquaintance before next autumn," said Sansa. "If he plans to announce a claim for the Throne as they say he will, both the Prince and Princess will be meeting with the Great Houses."

Joffrey rolled his eyes. "The commoners back him without waiting to see his true supporters."

"The Martells and the other noble houses of Dorne have declared their support to his Crown."

"And no one else. Fuck Dorne with all their fucking sand and snakes. Where is the true power in Westeros? In my family, in the alliance between House Lannister and House Baratheon and House Stark, in the true-"

"-union of the realm." Sansa finished under her breath. Joffrey fancied himself the next leader of the seven kingdoms, aimed to outdo even his grandfather Tywin in political clout and savvy. Even now, Sansa knew he wasn't made for the harsh world of politics, least of all in the public eye. He wouldn't succeed behind the scenes due to his hotheadedness. Tyrion himself had said so before, with Sansa present as the family drama unfolded. "The Crown Prince has a birthright, had been proclaimed the Heir apparent before The Mad King died."

"His family line is tainted and unfit to rule. Our father's sided together with that in mind, fought to keep Aerys's children off the throne for a reason. They're mad, they all are. I'm sure Viserys only needs a stage to show his true character."

"He and Princess Dany have the support of the people, which is more than our families have right now," said Sansa. The exploits in Essos that brought poverty and starvation to the Crownlands in years past were the doing of many noble houses. "It would make more sense for us to work with him-" she glanced up to see Joffrey looking over his shoulder at her, brow furrowing more with each word. "At least to see what his plans are and then work against him."

Joffrey shrugged. "Yes, I suppose it would make sense. How does he plan to feed all his millions of poor supporters, for instance, with only the crownlands?"

Sansa could only blink and Joffrey gave her a look like she was stupid. "If he lays a claim for the crown, we will starve him and his poor folk both. They don't fucking know what's good for them or the economy, and a few million peasants in the crownlands is a small price to pay to crush the Targaryen loyalist movement once and for all."

Sansa wanted to point out the flaws in Joffrey's plan, wanted to remind him that a few Great Houses were already considering Viserys seriously, that houses in Essos backed the Targaryen children as well, that the Prince and Princess would never starve with their citizens in King's Landing any more than Joffrey's family itself would. The noble families who spent most of the year in King's Landing would simply return to their ancestral homes, joining their extended families. The nobility would never starve, it would be the people who suffered.

But she didn't. It was better to let Joffrey turn to something else, move on from what riled him up. "Mother threatened to pull me out of Aegon's Academy if the Princess continues attending," said Joffrey.

Sansa gaped at him. "You have less than a year left! Where would you finish schooling?"

"Wherever I damn well please," said Joffrey. Sansa got the idea he didn't care whether Cersei pulled him from Aegon's or not. "Will you miss me?"

"Of course." She smiled. "I would come to see you each day."

"What if I left you?"

"Why would you even say that?" She crossed her arms.

Joffrey snorted. "Don't get your panties in a twist. We'll be together forever."

Sansa glared out the window in lieu of responding. If he wanted to be cruel, she would ignore him. He couldn't put his hands on her in the car anyway, not without unbuckling and climbing into the back. The sight of him manoeuvring his long, gangly limbs through the seats would make it worth it, she thought.

The car slowed to a near standstill. The neighbourhood surrounding the River Gate was flooded with foot traffic. The Street of Sisters was overtaken by paraders. The Hound cursed at all of them but carefully turned the car through the crowds and let pedestrians pass whenever they ran out in front of traffic. "There's so many of them," Joffrey muttered.

They left the car in a multi-levelled car park and took an elevator down to the general circus. In the main entrance, Preston Greenfield and Meryn Trant joined them, presumably called in by the Hound for added protection. Joffrey did care enough to comment. Meryn leered at her behind Joffrey's back. Sansa knew he'd be telling Cersei everything she wanted to hear about this outing.

"I can't believe we have to stand and watch with the crowd," Joffrey sneered. Sansa resisted the urge to tell him even if the Baratheon house had been formally invited to attend the landing, they would still be standing in the cleaner, sectioned off city walls as House Martell was. Without a royal invitation, they didn't have access to the after party, however, which Sansa thought was the true shame. She longed to see the inside of the Royal Palace as she had when she was a little girl. She remembered it being big and grand, awe-inspiring like many of the old Targaryen buildings in the city.

"The ramparts are hardly in the crowd," she said instead. From there, they could hear the Crown Prince speak without the aid of microphones and speakers and could see him without cameras and screens. It was more authentic than the performance the commonfolk would see from the streets, from behind their TVs and over the radio stations. Everyone would hear Prince Viserys's words but Sansa would see him speak. "And it's safer here."

"Yes, the peasants are quite riled, aren't they?"

Joffrey led her after Preston and Meryn, who parted the crowd with their sour looks. The Hound followed behind looking equally dark. When she glanced back, she saw the glint of a gun underneath his coat.

They made a place for themselves at the front of the wall of the River Gate. In the near distance, Sansa could see black-and-blood-red Targaryen sails in Blackwater Bay. Even after a full year seeing the Targaryen colours flying freely in King's Landing, chills ran down her spine. The Targaryen's had once crossed the Narrow Sea and conquered the known world. Some said they aimed to do it again. Sansa could not predict what would happen then, she only knew how the crowds cheered and cheered as their Crown Prince grew closer.

 A sea of red and black Targaryen soldiers lined the docks and the gate, their guns pointed to the ground. The Crown ship led the fleet, larger and prouder than the rest, and at the helm, Sansa could see the silver-gold hair of the royal siblings. They held each other close at the waist and waved slowly. Their white dress almost surprised her, for Dany often chose darker colours from what Sansa had seen of her. It had been one of the things that had brought her and Jon together, Sansa had thought.

 Yet Princess Daenerys looked breathtaking, everything Sansa had ever heard and seen of her. The pattern of her braided hair made Sansa pink with jealousy, as did the intricate silver jewellery lining the tan grown of her head. Prince Viserys wore a silver outfit to match his sisters, no doubt attempting to embrace the recent southron trend of clean pastels and stark whites for the winter season. Sansa herself wore a pale blue coat with short, black boots. Joffrey couldn't stand when she wore high heels, for it brought her crown almost higher than his, or else she might've worn a different pair of shoes.

The Crown fleet docked. They had installed a stand for the royal party to speak from on the docks. Sansa wondered how much cost and time went into the temporary structure, wondered which nobles had organized this whole event, how much agency Viserys and Daenerys had in the affair. Their smiles were convincing, genuine from what Sansa could remember. Public pictures of Viserys were few and far between, but Sansa had met Dany, shaken her hand and heard her laugh. Was stressful to receive your family so publically? Were they forced to make an event of it or did they chose to for the sake of their campaign?

 "Stupid cunts." Sansa glanced back at Sandor. His eyes were on the commonfolk clamouring to get closer to their Prince, screaming their admiration and faith for the returned Royals.

 "Promise them food and they'll applaud anything." Joffrey spit over the railing and, protected by high walls and hundreds of guards lining them, laughed at the faces of the people below him. When Viserys Targaryen raised a hand and the horns called for silence, the nobles around them pushed close to the edge, forcing Sansa and Joffrey to the front with them. The Hound's protective presence pressed ever-closer as well, pushed into their space by others vying for a better look at the  Prince. His long arms reached around both she and Joffrey, keeping others at bay and forcing them into a hug of sorts.

"Get your fucking hands off me." Joffrey's struggles were subdued by the limited space alone. Wanting very much not to be in his personal space, Sansa leaned away and found herself leaning into the chest of the Hound in a way. Sandor stood a great deal taller than she, a great deal taller than Joffrey even, and she was a bit too off centre for it to feel romantic in any way. She could feel the mass and heat of his shoulder and arm at her back, however, and it was close enough to an embrace that her mind wandered. The barrier his arms provided against strangers was appreciated, of course. It brought her too close to Joffrey, yes, but Joffrey hadn't even attempted to take control by pulling her into an embrace. Being touch by another man with her boyfriend so obviously right in front of them, even if that man was the Hound, even if Joffrey didn't seem to care, sent a thrill right down to her toes.

Sansa quickly crossed her arms and bit her gloved fingers into her jacket sleeves. The warmth around her shoulders was welcome against the chill, which could be innocent enough on its own. But the weight of him against her back, his arm almost snaking around her waist, constantly moving and flexing as lesser nobles pushed into their space and were pushed away in turn. That could not be compartmentalized away so easily, for her stomach coiled and her cheeks burned. He stood too close, he was far too strong. She saw his gloves, thick for warmth and black like the rest of his clothes. Sansa knew what his hands looked like underneath, remembered how his arms looked without layers of sleeves in the way. Those hands had grabbed her many times, she knew what it was like to have his hands around her wrist, her arm, had seen a mere breath of the strength he could instil upon her, upon anyone. He stood a monster in his own right, and still, Sansa enjoyed the press of his arm, the potential of his hand held out beneath her elbow and so close to the small of her back.

Sansa turned her head, leaning further into Sandor's arm to look out over the sea of people lining the wall as it curved gently away from the riverbed. Behind them, Meryn and Preston used full-body tactics and downright foul language to clear their small, protective circle. Over Preston's short shoulders, Sansa saw hundreds of the high class who had gathered to hear this, to show their support or interest in the Targaryen cause. She could see the colours and faces of various Tyrells, Martells, and lesser Crownland houses. She could even see a few Greyjoys, Tullys, and Arryns, no doubt here to report back to their great houses. Where were the Lannisters, the Starks? The Baratheons?

 The commonfolk beneath them stomped and cheered, unable to be cowed by a few royal horns. Sansa's breath caught when she realized they chanted the Prince's name, over and over, an ocean of the poor who wanted answers and food most of all. The Prince once again called for silence and the horns sounded. Sansa thought it futile but the din quieted, the crowd hushed to a low murmur which did not carry over the distance. Sansa was grateful, for she wished to hear Prince Viserys speak if only to be held by Sandor and not have to think about it.

 "Westeros is our home." Viserys could barely finish before the uproar returned. Joffrey scoffed, as did many of the nobles around them. Daenerys raised a hand to call for quiet this time. Even from a distance, Sansa thought she looked every bit a queen.

 "My mother and I were forced from King's Landing when I was only a boy of five. After Rhaegar's murder-" the commonfolk roared and screamed for justice, cries for the Dragon Prince and his family. "The greatest dynasty this world has ever known, and we were forced from our home amongst _our_ people."

 They paused to allow the din to quiet down. Sansa watched Daenerys look at her brother then out over the crowd. She wondered if Dany could see anyone specifically, could identify anyone, or if it was simply a sea of faces. The Targaryen guards in their red and black surely stood out, as did the nobles lining the wall. Maybe Daenerys could see Sansa, standing right at the edge and dressed in blue, or even the Hound, standing so close behind her.

 "My little sister was born on Dragonstone during a storm. She never knew how beautiful and kind our mother was, never knew what her home looked like." Sansa could see Dany looking down and shaking her head minutely. "They threw us to Essos and hoped the barbarians would eat us. Twelve years they tried to keep us away, the rightful rulers of the Seven Kingdoms and the known world."

 "Our enemies would see us dead, like our brother Prince Rhaegar and Lady Elia before us, like young Rhaenys and infant Aegon, thirteen years ago. They taunt us, tell us we are not welcome in the Crownlands, in Dragonstone, in the ancestral home of our family."

 "I stand before you, King Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, the so-called Beggar King."

 "And I stand before you, Princess Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, and the Princess of Dragonstone and Lady of Summerhall." Sansa was surprised by how little Daenery's was allotted to speak, given her powerful voice and presence before a crowd. More than that, the people loved Dany more than they loved Viserys; if the point was to incite their passion and support, it would be smart to let Princess Daenerys speak.

 "We have toiled to return to our people, to our family, to our home. We have had no need for comfort, for neither food nor drink, so long as we could not set foot on the land that was once our rightful home. We stand before you, as hungry for vengeance for our family as you are. The time soon will come, and I will remember my friends when I claim what is rightfully mine."

 "Eat, friends." Daenerys raised her arms, her voice overtaking her brothers. "Eat friends, for we know you are hungry, that you have pained and toiled as we have. The years have not been kind to either of us, but that is all over now. Food, for you and your families." The crowd reached a frenzy, for the Targaryen siblings unloaded crates upon crates of food, cracking them open and practically throwing the contents into the crowd. Pockets of guards in the line were quickly overtaken, swallowed up like the supplies they offered as the starving commonfolk cheered and squabbled.

Sansa felt the second the commonfolk turned on the Targaryen guards, heard the first shot of a gun like a crack of lightning.  It took mere moments for the mood to shift. She froze, not knowing where the gunfire originated, not knowing what to do. She turned her head, ignoring the panic of the peasants on the ground.

The Hound had an arm around Joffrey, hauling the young man away like he weighed nothing. Preston grabbed Sansa and pulled her along, Meryn helping them push through the mass of nobles all fleeing for their safety. Joffrey screamed and screamed until his face turned red but Sansa couldn't hear it, could only try to keep her feet under her as they made for the stairs.

Escaping the chaos meant going through the heart of the storm. The Targaryen host guarded the Prince and Princess as they retreated through the River Gate and up to the Red Keep. The peasants followed after them, demanding more and more food from ever decreasing stores. Once it completely dried up, Sansa knew more lives would be lost. It wasn't unheard of for peasants to eat the nobility or their hired guards if given the chance.

The Hound led their small party down and out, fighting back against the other nobles as they went. A sea of people stood between them and the car park where they left the Lannister cars. The only choice was to move through and beat anyone who tried to hurt them, Sansa knew, but she still couldn't watch Sandor's back disappear into the crowd. Preston followed, still holding and guarding Sansa as they went, and Sansa could hear Meryn cursing behind them.

They didn't make it very far before the commonfolk noticed them. Joffrey stood out, for scared as he was of their sheer number he would not stop yelling and swearing at them, and even the Hound's height drew attention. Hands grabbed at Sansa's arms and legs and her clothes and she watched hands grab at Joffrey too, eager to take what they could. Someone ripped a glove from her hand in one moment and she swung out at someone who painfully snapped her earmuffs off her head in the next.

Preston cursed and staggered, and let go of her to draw his handgun. Sansa had just enough time to pull away before he shot a man in the leg, his gun cracking like lightning. The man screamed and fell. A storm of hands and teeth descended upon Preston, ripping his gun from his hands and then tearing his clothes from his body, tearing skin and tearing hair and eyes and they bashed his skull to the pavement and smashed it again and again and Sansa ran so she didn't watch his skull split open.

She pushed her way through the crowd in the direction she was sure she would find Sandor and Joffrey waiting for her. Minutes passed and she met only peasants, faceless and frenzied by the riot and clawing at her hair and her eyes like they had Preston, pulling at her clothes and her arms, eager to eat her up like they had the bread and the grain and the rats of the sewers when needed. Sansa cried and fought and tore herself away, shoving further from the crowd and down a side street, eager to be away from the bulk of the chaos. Screams and jeers followed her, scaring her further into the darkness as she weaved passed fleeing families and opportunistic raiders alike. A man grabbed at her wrist, wrangled her to a stop. She could not see his face but she swung at it, clawed and kicked until he hit her in the face so hard she fell to the floor.

"Stupid cunt." Another kicked her in the stomach and brought stars to her eyes. Someone took hold of her ankles and she had the right mind to kick, finding her voice to scream again, to curse them by the gods old and new. They forced her legs open, swore and clawed at her jeans, and Sansa could only sob. One of them tore the front of her overcoat open and used it to trap her arms.

"Even been fucked, bitch?" The one between her legs asked, pressing closer between her thighs. He smelt like dirt and crude oil and Sansa found herself almost falling away from the moment, removing herself and pulling back all at once. Her head rested against the wall enough she was forced to see all four of them, ugly and angry and sneering.

From the floor and through the gaps in their bodies, Sansa could see the bulk of Sandor storming down the hallway long before they heard him. He didn't say a word as his great arms reached around and twisted, nearly taking a man's head off his neck with his bare hands alone. He tossed the body away like it weighed nothing. Sandor shoved a second man him into the wall and bashed his head against it, leaving him to bleed out. The third and fourth men tried to run, tearing down the hallway towards a door that would bring them around the corner and to safety. Sandor shot them with a snarl on his face and Sansa watched their bodies stagger and fall. 

Sandor didn't pause before turning to her. Sansa could only see his shoes. "You're alright now, little bird." He reached for her and she pulled away, for she could not see him or his face, could only see his shoulders and the cut of the light behind him and did not want him so close, did not want him standing between her legs or looking down at her face. She pulled her legs in and pushed him away.

The Hound knelt in front of her, scowling. His hands hovered close as if to try and grab her again and Sansa smacked them away, hit anywhere she could. He let her for a moment until she slapped his face, her nails cut into his scars. He swore and retreated from her space, but at once that wasn't what she wanted anymore, for his scars were the biggest difference between him and any other man, the most memorable part of him. She thought of his scars often, trying to piece together what had happened to him, wondering how they would feel and if he would ever let her touch them.

"Sandor." She raised her hands for him. He froze and let her touch his hands and pull him closer as she wanted. He knelt before her again and she knelt before him, their legs folded and their hands together. With her bare hand, she touched his chin and his lips, just the start of his disfigurement, hoping she had not hurt him with again. Sansa could see the bite of her nails in his cheek, pulled and knotted and gnarled as it was. She touched his brow and stared into his grey eyes, still feeling as if she might be floating away from her own body.

Sansa couldn't stop her tears and his calloused thumb brushed them away. He was saying something but she didn't care what. She could barely hear his voice but she could feel it beneath her fingers, vibrating up through his jaw and into the bones of her hands. She shook her head and kept tracing over his scars. She didn't trust her legs or her feet to carry her and she didn't want to move, she wanted to sink into the stone beneath them and never come out. Maybe Sandor would sink and sit forever with her, holding her hand and letting her touch his beautiful face and the soft hair of his beard, grounding her and keeping her from remembering this awful day. 

"We need to get you back to your cage, little bird."

Sansa shook her head again and gripped his hand. He pulled her to her feet anyway. "You need someone to see to those cuts."

He had a hand on her face to mirror her own on his cheek. He stooped down and scooped her gently over his shoulder in one movement, giving her no more time to protest against him. Her head spun and blood cracked on her lip where the man had hit her. She screeched and cried, not wanting to go anywhere while tears streamed down her face, not wanting to go home looking so obviously upset and attacked. She didn't want to talk about it and she didn't want to explain anything and more than anything she didn't want anyone to know. No matter how she kicked her legs, however, Sandor hand stayed behind her knees and kept her in place. Worse still, her bruised stomach coiled and turned with each bounce of his shoulders.

She gave up and laid there and let Sandor carry like a sack. He moved quickly even with her added weight, Sansa would give him that. The still-rioting crowds parted for him and his growling face. From his back, she saw people's face as they passed, the first shock and then customarily fear at the sight of the big Hound. Some looked angry, no doubt recognizing him. Some looked jealous as if she was a trophy. He carried her all the way to the car park and only then set her on her feet. It was long enough for her to hold back her tears.

Joffrey and Meryn were nowhere to be seen. "Joffrey?"

"Meryn took him home," said Sandor.

"Preston?" she sniffed back mucus. The last she had seen of him he was taken by the crowd.

"Dead." Sandor unlocked the car and opened the passenger door, shoving her in without apology. She huddled in the seat and buckled as he climbed in the driver's seat and tore out of the car park. He white-knuckled the wheel with both fists, angry, maybe angry with her. Sansa cowered back against her seat. She continued to sniff into her one glove, trying to hide her splotchy face.

"Gods, girl."

"I'm sorry." Sansa turned further away, ashamed of herself. She scrubbed at her face. "I'll stop." But she didn't, couldn't, not with the men fresh in her mind. She fell into hiccups, insistent and even more obnoxious than her tears had been. She bit at her lip. "Sorry."

"Stop apologising to me," Sandor snapped and Sansa jerked in her seat. He looked away from the road, frowning. "It's not... you didn't do anything wrong."

Sansa stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. That seemed to make him more nervous, sent him squirming in his seat and pressured to continue. "I should've been there, you were just-" he stopped, started again, and then growled out a "fuck this" before giving up entirely.

She waited only a moment. "Are they dead?"

Sandor looked at her in the corner of his eye. "Yes."

"All four?" she pressed, in disbelief.

"I wouldn't fucking lie to you." Though she knew Sandor's anger was directed elsewhere it still made her shiver. Her hands twitched around his. She wished to let go at the same time she wished to dig her nails into his skin and cry again because she knew he would let her.

"Fuck." She closed her eyes and rest her head against the car window. She didn't know how much time had passed since they had even arrived at the River Gate with Joffrey but the sun hadn’t set, the nightly chill hadn’t returned. "Don't take me home."

"What?"

Sansa opened her eyes and looked at across the car at him. He still wore his jacket, his gloves, had a goddamn hat on his head again. She could see the glint of his gun still in his lap as if he wanted it close, as if he might still need it. She could take it from him, probably turn it on him before he could take it back from her. He'd grab her, maybe stop the car just to throttle her for it, once he had the barrel safely pointed away from his gut. She thought about his hands on her neck as punishment, but only briefly, and then she was back in the car with him.

"I don't want to go home."

"You don't have a fucking choice." Sandor trained his eyes on the roads between them and Visenya's Hill. Traffic congested with the earlier panic, the pandemonium reaching the further edges of the city and echoing beyond its walls.

"I can't." She bit her lip but couldn't help herself. "I can't face anyone, I can't tell them. This shouldn't have happened." She sobbed. "You said you should've been there."

Sandor refused to look at her, kept both hands on the wheel and eyes on the road like he was supposed to.

"You're always nearby, always watching me. You should've been there."

She could see his whole body tense up again. "It's not my job to protect you-"

Sansa refused to let him backtrack. "That's not what you meant and we both know it." A shaky breath calmed her nerves. "You would've quit if not for me, you said that." Sandor didn't answer her, didn't even look at her. He sat stiff as a board.

"I think you've been trying to be a good person. Because of me." She reached out and put her hand around his left wrist. She took his hand from the wheel. She wrapped both of her hands around his and pulled it to her lap. He sat, wordless, and let her. "I think you feel guilty, for a lot of things, for- today. I'm giving you a small way to make up for it. To me."

Sandor squeezed her hand. And yet he said nothing. Sansa wondered if he could, or if she had stepped too far. Her hands began to sweat. She couldn't face Catelyn. Couldn’t hide in her bedroom alone. Her stomach twisted and coiled and she thought she might throw up a bit. She couldn't go home. Not yet. But she could find somewhere else to calm down maybe. She could have Sandor drop her off at Jeyne's and the Poole's wouldn't ask many questions. Later, after she had composed herself, maybe bathed, she could call Jon for a ride home. But what if Jeyne wasn't home? Sansa didn't want to be alone yet.

She let go of Sandor's hand and he seemed to not know what to do with it. Sansa turned toward the window and watched the reflection of it linger in the air above the gearshift until he placed it on the wheel. He turned the car down the Street of Seeds and away from her neighbourhood, driving beyond the Guild of Alchemists. Sansa bit her lip but said nothing.

The sky darkened and very quickly snowflakes stuck to the car. Sansa knew it would melt sometime tomorrow. "Where do you live?"

"Cobbler's Square." He shifted in his seat as they waited for a light.

Sansa looked back out the tinted window. She hadn’t mentioned Jeyne, had she? Sansa chewed her lip. She wished to hold Sandor’s hand again but felt he would not like it. He drove them to a modest line of old, terraced townhouses near the Gate of the Gods and parked on the street. Sandor opened her car door for her, then took her hand and led her to the main door. He keyed in a code and ushered her through the door with a hand on her back.

The lobby was barely more than a line of mailboxes and two doors to a couple flats but it was clean and well-lit. She followed Sandor up the stairs to the third floor and they paused outside flat 304. He unlocked the door and let her enter first. Sansa almost didn't, tempted to turn around and sit in the car for an hour instead of face the other side. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. She was doing something wrong, something purely for herself. Sandor let her, indulged her because he felt bad for today, for years passed. She would get to the bottom of his guilt, his weakness for her and where it started. He listened to her, did as she wanted. There was power there, waiting for her to simply ask.

She took a breath and stepped through the doorway. It was too dark to see much of the inside at first. The only light came through the windows across the open floor, and the fading afternoon sun was no match for growing storm clouds and Sandor’s half-drawn blinds. Sansa froze, not knowing where to place herself in the darkness. She heard Sandor close the door and move to the right. He flicked on a small yellow lamp near the couch. Sansa stared at his face in the light.

She pulled off her glove and wrung it between her hands. He looked at it and her, as wide-eyed and jittery as she felt in her own skin. Her fingers twitching, Sansa unbuttoned the front of her coat and held it out to him.

"I have to be home by 7PM."

It was a peace offering and Sansa knew it. Her arm shook, held in the air as it was, her nerves getting the better of her even as she clenched her jaw and stood straight. Sandor looked her up and down, then took her coat and backed away. He hung it by the door on a line of hooks and took off his own overcoat. His arms and shoulders twisted as he did, and she watched him, half encased in amber light as he was in the dark room. Her breath caught.

"Sandor." He froze, half-turned around. "You should probably take off your gloves."

He stared at her for a moment before peeling them off one by one and dropping them to the floor. She frowned and ignored how her own breath hitched. From what she could see his flat was neat and tidy, and his stare said more than enough on its own. He's testing her limits like a dog on a new leash.

"That's not where they go." She had no actual idea where he usually put such things but that didn't matter, to her or to him. His gaze dropped and he stooped to pick his gloves off the floor. He laid them on the shelf above his head, removing his hat as well.

"Your boots too, sir."

"Fuck, girl." He knelt and untied his boots. She watched his fingers blunder once or twice and wondered if he was as nervous as she was. Hands twitching for a purpose, Sansa wrung her glove again, thankful he had yet to pin her with a glare. He pushed his boots away and looked up at her, silent. She took a deep breath and stepped close to him.

"Now mine, please."

A man of his size on his knees should not have been the marvel it was. Sansa couldn't help but let her eyes roam over him, nearly crumpled in half before her yet still so large. She could see down the broad line of his back and found herself wanting to run her fingers down the deep divet of his spine, over the muscles on his shoulders and his back.

Sansa lifted one foot to his thigh. His face was intense but unreadable. His gaze dropped to her lips, then down to her foot. He touched her ankle and she froze, wondering if they should stop to talk about boundaries.

"I haven't thanked you for saving me," she said instead. "You were so brave."

"Brave?" He undid her boot, grunting and tugging at the laces before he scowled up at her. "A dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats."

She bit her lip and placed a hand on his shoulder to shift to her weight to her other leg. "You still saved me when you did not have to. Thank you."

"Keep your thanks. They're useless to me." He removed her second boot and placed them both neatly next to his own. She squeezed his shoulder and placed both feet steady on the floor. The wood was cool through her socks.

"I'm not scared of you anymore, Sandor, no matter how you growl. I know you won't hurt me." One of his hands returned to her ankle.

"No, little bird, I won't hurt you." He met her gaze.

"I know you've watched me for years when you think no one is looking. I know you can't stop, can't leave me alone, even if you can't bear the guilt." He frowned, his head ducking towards the floor. "It's alright, I don't mind. It makes me feel safe." She brushed a lock of his hair from his frowning face. "You have protected me before and I know you will do it again. You can be kind. You have more honour than you believe."

"I'm no fucking knight, girl, least of all yours." He sat back on his heels, and Sansa thought he looked wounded like an animal, sad and angry and in pain all at once. But he was simply a man, wounded and hurting in ways familiar to her.

"I don't care if you are." She swallowed and cupped his cheek, refusing to let him withdraw. "I don't need you to be a knight or a bloody bodyguard. I just need you not to lie to me, to do as I ask of you. I need your loyalty. Can you do that- do you want that?"

"Yes." He gripped her ankle, his grey eyes hungry, feverish. "I can keep you safe. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them. Fuck, I-" he grit his teeth and she hushed him, resisted the urge to kneel before him and take his hands in hers. She knew his anger, knew how excruciating it was to view yourself with disdain, knew the weight of self-contempt.

"That's what I want." She traced over the scars on his cheek with shaky fingers, her heart pounding. "I want you, Sandor. Do you want me?"

"Yes, little bird."

She smiled and bit her lip but leaned into the discomfort instead of away. Ran her fingers through his hair. "You do me a great honour, sir."

She stood with Sandor at her feet for a few minutes, his hand heavy on her foot and her hand trailing through his long hair, over his neck, his gaze on the floor. They would have to talk about everything they had agreed to, she knew there should be some boundaries set and limits drawn, but her mind couldn't actually stay on one thought long enough to make sense of it all. She felt hot all over, her fingertips burning against the skin of his ear. She couldn't stop smiling, even with the day weighing down on her. In the new standstill, however, the lingering filthiness was hard to ignore. She wanted to get out of her clothes, to feel clean again.

"Can you ready your bathroom for me? I want to shower." It was a small task and would give her a moment to breathe, to think about what she wanted beyond this instant.

Sandor stood and said nothing as he moved away. Sansa sat on his couch, not trusting her legs to hold her as her adrenaline petered off and her nerves came back. She chewed her bottom lip and checked her phone for the time. Joffrey had sent her a few messages after the riot and on his way home, worried for her safety. Her stomach tossed at the idea of replying and so she left them for later. It was almost 4PM, which left her more time in Sandor's flat than she thought. The full weight of their conversation hit her and sent her heart pounding.

She heard the water roar to life in the tub before switching to the showerhead. The floorboards in the hallway creaked. She wondered what his bedroom looked like, how clean it was, what his bedsheets smelt like. He would let her find out, no doubt would let her explore every nook and cranny in his entire place if that's what she wanted. The thought made her fingers and toes curl. Sandor appeared from the hallway before she could think much further.

"This way." Sandor held a hand out to her from the end of the couch. She took it and stood, pushing past her shaky nerves to smile. He squeezed her hand in response, his face more earnest than pleased or relaxed. He led her down the hall to a small bathroom with pale tiling. It was as clean as she could hope, with small personal things in little places.

Sandor wouldn't look at her, had more interest in the wall to his right than anything in her direction. She tried not to read into it. "Towels?”

He moved in a flash and held one up for her, a strange look on his face. “I can clean your clothes. I have a small machine.”

“Oh.” Short of throwing them out entirely, it would be ideal. “Will they be dry before I need to leave?”

“Yes.” He held his hands out.

She glanced down and decided to trust him. “Alright. Bring me something clean to wear. I will leave these for you on the counter.” Her heart beat against her ribs. He stared at her. Blinked once.

“The counter,” he repeated. She had invited him in, intended to leave the door unlocked. He looked stupid with the thought of it. Not that she had given him permission to linger, or even get close to see her through the foggy shower door. It still meant something, though.

“Yes. You can leave the clean set in their place.” She turned from him. Nothing else needed to be said. He stood there for only a few seconds, frozen as she began to pull her shirt over her head. Then he was gone in a flash, the door closed behind him. Sansa smiled and stripped quickly, wanting to feel the heat of the water as soon as possible.

Naked, she folded her clothes and placed them next to the sink then checked the water temperature. It was only after she slid the glass door shut behind her and ducked beneath the spray that Sansa really stopped and had time to think about what had happened. It wasn't easy to stand there and let the hot water wash away what was left of the riot and the thousands of hands that had clawed at her but it felt good, like her memories of the day were washed down the drain with the scum and blood stuck beneath her fingernails, on her face.

Sandor didn't have much in his shower. She smelt his body wash before using it, almost ashamed by how familiar it was to her and how her heart thundered as she lathered it over her neck and shoulders. This all meant something. Him bringing her here, kneeling before her, vowing to her in a way. It sent a thrill through her, thinking about what she had said, caught up in the moment and speaking from her heart. He had listened to her decrees and sworn himself to her. It felt like a fairytale, unreal but mesmerising. She almost couldn't stand the ambiguity. Speaking on it again, however, so soon after she just managed to say most of what she wanted, would be too much.

Even running his shampoo through her hair made her jittery. She was going to smell like Sandor, from her head to her toes. And then she'd sit in his clothes, on his couch. A flush overcame her cheeks as she thought of what they might do to pass the time, what he might want to do. Her lip ached in the steam, bringing her back to reality, back to the men who had tried to touch her. She wasn't sure she could handle anyone touching her in the same way so soon but wasn't sure she wanted to say no touching and being touched. She wanted to be held, wanted to lean back again his chest and feel the comfort and safety of his arms. Gods, she hoped Sandor wanted that too.

The floorboards in the hallway creaked and groaned through the gap beneath the bathroom door. Sansa washed the soap from her face right as Sandor knocked on the door.

"Come in."

The shower door glass was foggy and even marbleised for privacy reasons, so she could not see the details when he opened the door. She could see the dark bulk of him against the tiles, however, and watched him swap one handful of clothes for another. He paused at the door, half turned from her. He could see her turned to him, she knew, yet neither said a word before he ducked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

He had responded well to her control, seemed to crave opportunities to prove himself even as he spat at her approval, her thanks, and rage against real his masters. She had seen him violent with rage, knew the extent he was willing to go to get his job done, to get a point across. He had no trouble beating people when Joffrey started fights, no qualms cursing and yelling at anyone who crossed too close in front of him or looked at him wrong. She didn't mind his sour moods, even found his scowling face handsome she could admit, but she would have to draw new lines in the sand, give him a better code to follow. He seemed to want it, seemed to trust her to lead him to a brighter future. At the end of the day, she was just a silly little girl as he often said, and he was simply a man. If she refused him something he wanted, he may turn around and take it anyways. He watched her, wanted her. Trusted her. She trusted him, against a few of her better judgements, wanted to give him a chance.

Sansa wasted no time after that, her mind now set. She rinsed Sandor's condition from her hair and the last of the body wash from her legs and feet. She inspected her body for marks or bruises as she towelled down, her reflection twisting in the foggy mirror above the sink. Only the cut on her lip and the bruise on her face around it, it seemed. Sansa wished it wasn't so obvious, knew she would have to answer questions when she got home and ate dinner with her family.

The shirt Sandor left her hung off her shoulders like a shawl. The pants couldn't be his own, for she only had to roll them a few times to walk comfortably. She ran her fingers through her damp hair for knots and hung the towel on the rack. With a deep breath, she pulled the door open and emerged into the hallway. It was still quite dark, the white bathroom lights spilt out through the door and cast her shadow on the wall. She cut the light and followed the sound of a television.

Sandor sat on the couch next to the lamp, elbows on his knees wearing a different shirt from earlier. Sansa smiled, fighting not to wring the hem of her new shirt in her hands. "This is nice. Thank you."

Sandor relaxed only a fraction at the feedback. "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head. "I'll eat later." He looked lost like dinner had been his only plan. "Can we smoke in here?" She shrugged at his continued confusion. "I'd like to be less sober."

Sandor stood in a flash and moved to a cabinet across the room. Free of his gaze, Sansa sat and waited on the couch where he had been sitting. He produced a large glass bong, to which she nodded her approval, and packed a bowl for her. She underestimated the first hit and it overtook her, sent her coughing. He took traded the bong for a bottle of water, for which she was grateful, and took a few hits as she recovered. They traded back and forth after that, and Sansa felt herself float into a lighter sense of being, settle into the familiar feeling. Sandor appeared more relaxed, even took a seat next to her when she beckoned him off the floor.

She held the bong in her lap as he packed another bowl, thinking about how he had pulled his hair back from his face and she couldn't run her fingers through it. Sansa reached up an tugged at his bun anyways, smiled when he looked at her, his thigh hot next to hers. "I like your hair."

He gave her a lighter and waited until she ducked her head to reach up and pull his hair loose. She caught him doing it, could see the red on his face even angled over the bong as she was. She passed him the bong and immediately stuck her free hands into his hair, pushing it back from his face and appreciating the silkiness, the proximity of his face to hers, the way he trusted her so close to his scars. He grumbled a bit but did not actually protest, simply leaned down and took his hits as she wanted him to. He lit her next one for her, even pulled the bowl from the stem, so she could keep her hands in his hair, her fingers on his scalp and the ridged scars near his ear.

"How old were you when you joined the Lannister company?"

He gave her an unreadable look, his grey eyes black in the low light. "Twenty-five."

"I remember younger you." He already had his scars, they made him impossible to forget. It had been six years, if her memory served correct, since she had first seen him on the Lannister grounds. As a child she had seen him and thought him scary, the way he growled and swore even in the presence of women and children drove her away. Joffrey liked him, so he stayed, was assigned closer and closer as the years passed and they both grew into young adults.

"How old was I when you fell in love with me?"

Sandor froze. Even under the comfort of her hands, he looked like he was ready to run and never speak of it again. Sansa pushed forward even as she let go of his hair and set her hands on his shoulders. "I know you started treating me differently and tried not to. I know you think you're a bad man for what you feel for me, whatever it is. I don't care."

The glass bong was a barrier between. Sansa set it on the coffee table and turned to him completely. "I just want to know the truth."

"You were thirteen." He grit out between his teeth. "Still a child. I gave you my coat and- it made Joffrey's mother so angry."

It was Sansa's turn to pull away. "What?"

"A Lannister coat. I fucking hated wearing it, and you were soaked to the bone-"

"I had fallen in the pond," Sansa interjected, thinking back to the day. She didn't remember the Hound being there, but a member of Joffrey's bodyguards had _pulled_ her out of the pond, had made sure she was alright.

"Joffrey pushed you." Sansa frowned. "I jumped in after you, pulled you out." He touched her hands and Sansa remembered she could move, surged forward to wrap her arms around his neck. He went wide-eyed and almost stupid looking and she might've laughed if it weren't so serious, if she didn't want to hear his story so badly her hands shook.

"We thought you had drowned, I thought- he had fucking killed you." His voice rasped through her hands and arms, low with his anger, with the possessiveness. She felt it in his hands on her waist, hot like a brand as he held her steady. "I wanted to kill the little cunt, hold his head beneath the water and drown him as his mother watched."

"Sandor-"

"That's when I knew." He looked down at his own hands, took them off her hips. "You were pure, beautiful, saw me, spoke to me. The thought of never seeing you again, of working for the Lannisters, living, when you died in front of me- I knew I wouldn't last."

"But I know how to swim." She touched his scarred ear, rolled it gently between her fingers to test how sensitive his skin was. Beneath her arms, Sansa felt a shiver ran up his spine and smiled, anxious about the small distance between them even as she luxuriated in it. "I remember getting pulled from the water."

"You wouldn't stop fucking crying even after Joffrey apologised and Cersei had him taken to his room. I thought you might be cold, scared." She felt his hands in the ends of her hair in the middle of her back. 

"So the coat?" She leaned back and Sandor mirrored her, letting her go to rest against the arm of the couch behind him.

"You hid beneath it until your mother came, quiet as a mouse."

"I remember hiding." Sansa inched closer. “Why did you take it back?”

“I didn’t bloody take it; you wore it home.”  Sandor grunted, not looking at her, closing himself off as he folded his arms. “You probably just threw it out.”

“I don’t think I would do that.”  Sansa bit her lip. “But I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Sandor said nothing. She grabbed at his arms, tugged them open again with little force. "Can I lay against you? Would you like that?"

 Sandor nodded. At once Sansa turned and slotted herself better against him, laying them both out chest to chest and legs intertwined. She sighed and laid her head against his chest. "You can drive me home later. 7PM."

He wrapped his arms around her. "The Little Bird has a lot to say."

Sansa smiled. “Don't let me be late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a lot, hope ya'll liked it.


	6. Wishful Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb has stress (and trauma). Oh, and Bran is still alive (he also has trauma). 
> 
> "This stupid act, that things aren't bad  
> We could never be like that  
> Live far away now, that's no joke  
> No way to reach you when I'm low
> 
> Lying around, daydreaming  
> Wanting you now, but that's wishful thinking"  
> -Benee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with more fanfic! Oh, and did I mention there's a sequel in the works? After I finish this one, I'll probably take a month to write the beginning of the next. Subscribe to the series before you forget! B)

### Robb

With the end of the semester fast approaching, Robb barely had time to recover from midterms before professors mentioned the end. Cautionary references to late-work acceptance policies and cumulative exams filled his head. He was sure to fail at least one course. Doomed, it seemed. The rest floated precariously between good enough and not.

Theon had offered to keep him 'on track' for the last month of school. Robb was trying hard enough on his own and doubted he would be much help at all. They didn't share any courses the way Robb and Loras did and Robb had spent far more of this study session in his books than Theon.

"Who're you bloody texting? Nonstop over there, driving me mad," said Theon.

Loras made no attempt to hide his flying fingers nor the abandoned state of his homework. Margaery, as much as she loved them both, lamented Robb spending more time with her errant brother. Loras barely paid attention to his studies and still did well, to which Robb was forever envious. They had only begun spending time together when Margaery took an interest in Robb, against her grandmother's wishes. Loras mentioned the looming question only once, threatening Robb with harm should Marg be wronged in any way.

"No one," said Loras.

"Fucking liar." Theon scoffed and lunged for his phone. Loras rolled away across the bed and right into Robb's legs.

Robb plucked the phone from his hands though he did not care as much as Theon did, and held it from their reach. He didn't read much for his own sake and what he read was almost tame. Nothing like the conversations between Loras and Renly that Robb had the misfortune of reading once before he knew better than to snoop through Loras's things. Theon didn't seem to care about Loras's boundaries in the same way. Robb tried not to indulge his more jealous tendencies too often.

"Professor Jaime?" Robb could only laugh at the contact name. "Jaime Lannister?"

"Jaime fucking Lannister!" Theon fell into Robb's desk chair. "You're running around with Jaimie fucking Lannister?"

Loras jabbed Robb in the ribs and got his phone back, quickly locking it. "He's interested in my studies."

"I'm sure he is." Theon turned back around and hunched over Robb's desk to concentrate. Robb knew he was more than a little upset from the scowl on his face. But had promised a good smoke and Robb was sure he intended to deliver. "Looking for his next scandal, more like."

"What happened to Renly?" asked Robb.

Loras rolled his eyes. "We're pretty open, obviously, and he's been busy."

Robb glanced between Theon's back and Loras, the proximity between his thighs and Loras's own, how he could easily lay a hand on Loras's ankle and change the mood in a heartbeat. Theon would be upset if he got handsy when his back was turned, however, and Robb did need to focus on his schoolwork.

"Jaimie's a bit old for you." Robb ducked back into his geography book, trying to get their study session back on track.

Loras smiled. "He's always so charming though, isn't he?"

Theon snorted in an ugly way. "Is he?"

"Like you would know, Greyjoy." Robb smirked down at his books. Loras could like who he wanted to like. "I'd pay to pick his brain," Loras sighed.

"Oh, shut up."

"His tactics are precise," said Robb, siding with Loras. "His guest lectures on Lannister Inc. in Essos enthralled me."

Loras sighed. "I was so looking forward to his course in the spring."

"Was?" Robb watched Loras thumb open his phone again. He looked calmer now, with Robb defending him from Theon's bad attitude. Theon sulked over Robb's desk but he was listening, Robb knew. Theon wanted to know every detail Robb did.

"He's taking a leave of absence to join Tyrion on in the Free Cities."

Theon snorted. "And you know this because-"

Loras shook his phone at Theon's back with a dumb look on his face. It was a pity Theon didn't see it, for he turned only a second later, frowning.

"So when you wanted to be early to Strategic Management..." Robb trailed off, trying to keeping the mood light.

"Don't act like you didn't appreciate it." Loras sniffed.

"Robb _loves_ Tywin's lectures," said Theon.

Robb frowned; he didn't like the two of them working together against him.

"I've got good marks." It was the one course he felt confident he would pass with flying colours. "He's a well-spoken professor so _yes_ , I like his lectures."

 _"Well-spoken."_ Loras looked up at Robb like he knew a secret. "You're quite deep in it, then, aren't you?"

"Oh, fuck off with that." Theon stood and, against their weak protests, shoved some of their things to the floor to make room for himself. Loras rolled closer to the pillows and left him space near their legs to get comfortable. "He’s old! And he's fucking mean to his students."

"You haven't taken any of his classes," countered Robb.

"Don't have to. Everyone knows someone who's failed his 202 course. It's fucking _required_ by the college of business but only three professors bloody teach it, one of whom is the devil himself."

"Harsh," said Robb. He based most of his opinion from interacting with the man and his family at various point in life. The Stark and Lannister families had grown close through House Baratheon. His portrait hung in the foyer of the Lannister home on Visenya's Hill like a fallen forefather but he was rarely there when Robb, Jon, and Sansa used to visit to play with Joffrey and Tommen.

Robb _had_ met the man in his ancestral home on a visit to the Westerlands when he was twelve. The whole Stark family had gone, Theon included, but Robb had been the one to hide in the giant study during their games. Lord Tywin had seen him, of course, had heard him tumble through the old double doors and scurry all the way to the back of the heavy shelves. He had beckoned Robb out from hiding and gave him some firm words about appropriate behaviour in such a library, then sent him on his way.

"He's nicer to you than he is to me." Loras shrugged. "I'm not saying he's mean to me, though, not really. But he _does_ make time for you deviating from material for off-tangent exploration."

"So, what, I'm only doing well because he wants to warm my arse?"

"Yes," said Theon.

"No," said Loras.

"You think I'm _that bloody stupid,_ my best bloody course and I didn't even earn my place."

Theon had the decency to look ashamed now, to keep his mouth shut.

"That's not what I meant, Robb, you're not stupid." Loras began to rub his thumb over the bone of Robb's ankle. Robb thought of his earlier chance to change the mood, how he had missed it. They wouldn't be fighting about this if he had done something. "I think he gives you special attention because he likes you, yes, but that might be exactly what you need to stay steady right now."

Robb clamped his mouth shut and looked down at his notes. Nothing special had changed after meeting Tywin at Casterly Rock. It’s not like he knew Tywin or apprenticed beneath him. Robb doubted Tywin even remembered him hiding in the library. Still, he did not seem cruel as Theon said, and Loras was certain this was a special treatment only for him. Worst of all and what Robb could not deny to himself, Tywin’s lectures kept Robb engaged in ways his other lectures did not. And the feedback with his marks was extensive, as shown by the graded papers in front of him. Tywin certainly wanted him to succeed, loved hearing his ideas and his counterarguments. Robb didn't want to doubt he was smart enough to earn such impressive marks on his own and yet... He couldn't help think about his other coursework this semester where his grades hadn't been as good, about his horrific spring semester. Maybe Loras had a point.

The tension in Robb's mind broke with the hiss of Theon's lighter. Robb frowned, not wanting ash on his bed.

"The ashtray." Loras pointed to the desk, ever courteous.

"Ruins the mood," Theon muttered but did as he was told and grabbed it.

"Are you offering to do my laundering?" said Robb.

"Fuck no." Theon took a long drag and then passed it along.

Loras dropped his phone and laid on his back, giving his full attention to the matter at hand. Robb liked watching him take his hits; he always closed his eyes as if he feared it. Loras passed to him and Robb took a puff or two, glad for the few hours he had before afternoon labs.

"He might have some good advice for your 'dropping out' predicament," said Loras, after long enough that Robb had thought the topic had dropped. "You could always talk to him and see where it goes."

"He's old enough to be your grandad," said Theon.

"It's how I started with Jaime." Loras continued, unhindered by Theon's objections. "I hung late after class and asked a lot of questions."

"He's a professor, Loras, _my_ professor. Not a visiting speaker."

"Only for another month."

"Still old as bollocks," Theon chimed in. “Probably a homophobe too.”

"Shove it, Greyjoy," Loras said, his tone firm.

Theon sat back and sucked a drag from the blunt when it came his way again. Robb almost pitied him. But he should know Loras didn't like being made fun of for his choices in men.

"More than that, he’s Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. And you think, what, he's some degenerate who wants to fuck his 19-year-old students?" asked Robb.

"Just one of them," said Loras.

"Precisely." Theon tapped the end of the blunt into a bowl and passed that around instead.

"His _is_ the one course you don't need to salvage, your whole 'might drop out' cry bit would definitely get an invite to his private office."

"What's he gonna tell him, huh? Don't drop out? Drop out and don't tell your parents? Suck my cock and don't tell the Board?"

"He's on the Board, I'm fairly sure," said Robb. Theon scoffed with obvious disgust.

"Sometimes it helps to talk with someone somewhat removed from the situation." Loras's focus was back on his phone.

Robb nodded. Tywin would have good ideas for where Robb should go, of that Robb had no doubt, but what if his opinion of Robb changed? What if he looked at Robb and could only remember Robb's other courses, the ones he was failing, and couldn't help but wonder if Robb deserved his current marks? Did he? Robb could lose his own good course grade.

"You could go now." Loras held his phone up to Robb's face. The highlighted text was a listing of Professor Tywin's office hours, open on the second and fourth day of each week in the afternoons. Robb could barely read it, his mind still spinning.

"Like he has time for Robb's drama with all the shit in King's Landing." Robb glanced over to see Theon frowning down at his own phone, scrolling. He was right, the planned Targaryen ceremony alone had left both the Starks and the Lannisters on edge for weeks preceding, waiting for updates from their various political allies.

The Riot had sparked true mania, however, and worst of all, Robb learned after the Sansa and Joffrey had been in attendance. Robb had reached out to Sansa in the aftermath, had called and asked if she wanted to talk. She told him of Catelyn's glass-doll treatment and her restlessness but hadn't spoken much of the day, of the turmoil of the riot itself. Reports stated it had been an outright mess. Dissent grew for how the Baratheon's and Lannisters in political power spoke of the entire tragedy, for how they had tried to spin it for their own side of the fight. Robb wanted to press for details, to protect her if needed, but Sansa hadn't budged to his texts and he had far less influence on Dragonstone than he would at home. He wished he could simply knock on her door and sit on her bed with her. She would listen to his problems too, so maybe Tywin didn't need to be involved after all.

There was bad press to handle and emergency measures to be taken. Robb's own father was apparently often out of the house and on Aegon's High Hill speaking on matters of state. Robb wished to join him, in a way, wished to hear what was said in those rooms full of powerful people. Though he had not taken a leave of absence from his lectures to return to King's Landing, Tywin Lannister was probably too busy for Robb to just drop in on him at such a time.

"I can see the bloody gears turning," said Loras. "Don't listen to Theon, he's just worried you'll leave him."

"Don't act like you're next in line, Tyrell."

"I do believe Margaery is first," said Loras, "and by association, I am second."

"Fuck you, that's not how it works. He can marry Marg and there's no more need for you."

What a thought. It came to Robb's mind more and more often these days, when he thought of where he wanted his life to go, who he wanted with him in the future.

"Marry me." Loras twisted and laid against his side.

Robb knew Loras only wanted to ruffle Theon further, but he couldn't complain. He would marry them both if they asked. It would be quite the ceremony, would undoubtedly disinherit all of them from their respective titles and lands. Catelyn always claimed she loved Robb's interest in Margaery because Marg was "safe" and had a good relationship with the people. He doubted she would feel the same way of him dating both Loras and Margaery publicly, marrying him without shame. The tabloids alone would make her ill.

Robb could only smile, his hand already creeping up to play with the ends of Loras's fair hair. "Lads, you're both pretty."

Theon tossed the last of the bowl away and knelt between Loras's legs. He met Robb's eyes for only a moment before he pushed Loras's shirt up and ducked down to mouth at his stomach. Theon didn't ever waste time before getting their clothes off if given the chance.

"I can't believe you declined my proposal," said Loras.

"I'm sorry, my love," said Robb, but his mind was already turning elsewhere.

"You gonna watch or fuck?" Theon unbuttoned Loras's trousers and loosed them enough to scratch at his hipbones. But he looked up at Robb. He was always rough enough to leave marks, and after so many years, Robb knew Theon loved so deeply he almost couldn't bear to share. He was driven to leave evidence of his conquest, even if it would fade in a few days.

He was also angry at the mere idea of Robb being interested in someone else. He usually was until Robb introduced his new date properly. But Theon already knew Tywin and hated him, and Robb wasn't even sure what he wanted in the first place. It almost wasn't worth upsetting Theon.

"You should go talk to Tywin," Loras reiterated, refusing to let Robb let it go.

"Trying to kick me out of my own bed?"

"Don't play coy, Stark," said Loras.

"What if he turns me away?" Robb said it without meaning. It was too revealing to say without embarrassment.

"We egg his car," said Theon.

"I'll suck your dick before his Strategic Management lecture next week," said Loras.

"We're _not_ egging a bloody car." Robb slipped from the bed. They would surely continue without him on his own sheets. It didn't bother him, for his pillowcase would smell of Loras’s shampoo later when he returned.

"So that's a yes to the dick sucking," continued Loras, losing his trousers to Theon's questing hands. Robb watched a moment, his mind already mess. The sight of them both quickly naked was intoxicating and overwhelming and only added to his confusion.

"I'll tell you how it goes." Robb turned to tug on his shoes. Then he leaned down and shared a kiss with Loras. He was grateful for the support, no matter how jittery he felt, and wanted Loras to know that.

Loras gave him a big smile as he stepped away but Theon didn't say a word. He gave Robb a look that meant he wanted to talk but Robb didn't want to be admonished all over again. He slipped out his bedroom door quietly, avoiding parting words altogether. Theon would call him later, maybe show up tomorrow to share Robb's dinner. All would be well again.

Robb half-ran down the steps from his flat, adrenaline egging him on even as he struggled to get his right arm into the sleeve of his winter coat. There had been a cold snap overnight, leaving a heavy fleece of frost throughout the south. Some complained but Robb found the newfound chill exciting, liked the old stone of the university coated white instead of black.

He also preferred to think of oncoming winter storms than warmer winters past. Almost a full year had passed since they had lost Rickon, though he could barely believe it, sometimes barely felt the days pass. He would have to call his parents to see what kind of memorial they had planned, to see when he would need to go home.

His path through the commons left footprints in the icy grass and chilled his toes, but Robb didn't care. The business school rose ahead in the distance and Robb couldn't think of what he should say. He sure as the bloody seven wasn't going to _cry_ as Loras suggested. That was sure to get him instant attention, good and bad, and he could never bear it. He'd never come back from it, for one, would have to quit going to Tywin's class regardless of the composure Tywin would surely keep as he handled Robb's disastrous emotions. Robb didn't want kid gloves, of course, but couldn't bear the idea of baring his whole soul to the man from the start to get the honesty he wanted.

Robb shook his head and barrelled towards the stairs. _You're getting ahead of yourself, Stark._ He wanted guidance, so he would ask for that. He also wanted to know why Tywin was "nicer" to him than other students, according to some sources. Most importantly, he wanted a way to ask for both of these things without giving details on his poor marks in other classes. A strong, vague explanation was in order.

When he came to the right wooden door on the second floor, Robb hesitated. He had only been inside once before. Last month, in fact, to turn in his midterm by hand as required. Tywin hadn't said much at all, clearly too busy with all the paperwork around him to acknowledge Robb’s presence with more than a quick look. Robb remembered kicking himself over how he had said "Have a good day" as he closed the door behind him despite the clear and unspoken request for silence.

Robb knocked, half-praying the room on the other side would be empty and he could slink home and forget he ever tried this. Whatever this was. Robb still didn't know what he fully wanted, and neither Loras nor Theon had helped in straightening out his thoughts.

"Come in," came through the door after no delay. Robb breathed a sigh of relief and pushed through the door, for this surely meant Tywin was still running his ordinary office hours. Lord Tywin was seated behind his desk, the wall of glass behind him letting in enough natural light Robb had to squint against it and it made the hallway seem dim. He wondered if that was part of Tywin’s scheme to appear imposing, for he sat with his face schooled in the same scowl he wore in his lectures. Behind him, however, ice water gently slipped from the roof and the afternoon sunlight made his office feel more welcoming than anything.

 Across from Tywin sat another student Robb didn't recognize. The mere presence of someone else in the room brought him up short, barely a few feet in the door. Tywin's heavy glare pinned him to the doorway. Robb wanted to back out the door he found he couldn't.

"Apologies," Robb began. Surely, he was interrupting something. He would just let Tywin know he wished to discuss a few things and return later. Another day or two wouldn't be the end of his world.

"You're late," said Tywin, interrupting him. Then Tywin looked back to the student sitting across from him. "I mentioned earlier I only had a few minutes."

The other young man turned around and looked Robb up and down. Robb hoped he didn't look as crazed as he felt. Theon had claimed a lot of people fail Tywin's classes and given the blatant upset on his face, Robb doubted he cared what Robb was here for. He did stand and snatch a fistful of papers from Tywin's desk before quietly storming out. The older man didn't appear to care. Robb simply waited until the door had opened and closed shut again.

"I'm late?" asked Robb. He certainly didn't have an appointment.

"You're not." Tywin sank back in his chair and stretched his hands a bit. "He had overstayed his welcome."

Robb couldn't think of how to start. He prayed he didn’t smell like Theon’s weed or look like he had directly rolled away from sex before coming here. He couldn't ask what they had spoken of, to see if his own request for time may be too much (and Robb was sure it was going to be too much regardless). Tywin simply looked at him and gave no indication as Robb tried to make up his mind.

"What brings you to my office, Lord Stark?"

"I was hoping to discuss something with you." Robb took a step forward then stopped. "Two things, in fact."

"Then sit and name your two things. I have a few minutes."

Robb did not sit. "I will need more than a few minutes." He didn't want to be kicked out after ten minutes when Tywin got bored of him.

Tywin blinked and steepled his fingers. Robb resisted the urge to clear his throat, now dry. He had sounded presumptuous and to avoid that scrutiny Robb was compelled to continue. Seven forbid he found himself on the other side of the earlier situation and Tywin looked for a polite out for their conversation.

"I'd rather come back later than overstay my welcome."

Tywin glanced to the wall behind Robb to where a clock ticked quietly. "I have time for you, Lord Stark, but you _will_ sit."

Robb took a final step and sank into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Tywin's blank stare gave away nothing for Robb to reassure himself with. He paused, his coat bulky in the chair, and stood again to take it off his shoulders.

He sat again and folded his coat over his legs, wringing the thick material in his hands behind the desk and out of Tywin's sight. "I don't think I can recover from my first year."

Robb glanced down to his hands and then back up to Tywin's face. Tywin knew enough about the Stark family that Robb thankfully did not need to detail what happened the year before. "I'm not... doing as well in my classes as I need, and I have to make-up... a lot. But I'm doing well in your class and I've heard it's bloody hard."

Tywin nodded for him to continue and Robb almost wanted to curse. That wasn't the end, no.

"I thought before that I was good at school but now..." He had to let go of his coat for fear of ruining the leather. "I think I want to drop out."

Robb didn't know if that was vague enough to save himself any sort of embarrassment, but at the very least Tywin didn't outwardly emote for a minute or two. Robb felt safe enough to sit in the chair and wait as he thought through what Robb said.

"And now you've come to me," said Tywin.

"I've heard it can help to speak to someone a bit removed from the situation." Robb shifted in his seat. Tywin nodded again and Robb had to wait a few seconds before he realized he was meant to continue. “Most others I talk to tell me to just do it because I’m unhappy here but… I don’t know what I’ll do after this. My parents will never accept it.”

"I wouldn’t either if you were my son,” said Tywin. “I think it would be a shame if you dropped any of your courses, least of all my own." Tywin unfolded his fingers and sat back in his chair. "But I understand the odds you must be up against, given the absence you took this time last year."

It was Robb's turn to nod.

"What is your second thing?"

Robb hadn't decided how to approach this, He almost regretted giving Tywin such a definitive number of conversational topics to be covered. Of course, Tywin wouldn't forget nor would he let it go before Robb did.

"I'm acing your course." He sounded cockier than he wanted, and Tywin heard it too, for he frowned. "Some of my friends think it's not earned, that I should be struggling like everyone else in your lectures."

"Are these friends of your failing my course, perhaps?"

"No, My Lord." Robb knew that without a doubt, given Loras's marks and how Theon admitted to not even taking it.

"So, you believe they stand on some merit?”

"Some, My Lord. I get my best marks in your course.” Tywin looked ready to speak but Robb ploughed forward before he could, before his own nerve failed him and he landed awkwardly between his current safe existence and the dangerous point he was trying to make. “You feedback on my work is extensive- unprecedented. I’ve seen others, it’s not the same. And-” He paused for air, remembering he needed it. “I’ve heard you’re meant to be quite mean, but you’re nice to me.”

"What are you implying?" It was not a question, and Robb didn’t have to know Tywin to hear his anger, brilliant composure or not.

"I think you like me." His feet twitched with the urge to run. He had said it too quickly and in the worst way possible, like a boy with a hesitant crush. This was a horrible idea, evident by the blank _disappointment_ on Tywin’s face. "Enough to go easy on me."

"I don't go easy on anyone, Lord Stark, least of all young wolves without their full set of teeth. If you don't think you've earned your marks, you're welcome to walk down to the administrative office and admit to whatever charge would absolve you of your guilt."

Robb clenched his jaw against a quick retort. Tywin was saying he was smart enough to earn his grades, but it still felt wrong. "So I struggle in all other classes but yours are easy? I’m the only one of your students that you can bear to listen to in lectures?"

“And your first assumption beyond that possibility is me passing you on no merit.” Tywin scoffed and reached for a glass of water at his elbow. Robb at once felt very thirsty. “Are you even giving your other classes your full attention?"

Robb glared at him over the broad desk.

"Do you ever skip, or let deadlines slip?" Robb said nothing and Tywin seemed to take it for the answer it was. “Then you do yourself a disservice.”

“I am trying, I don’t _want_ to fail.”

"Either you're not trying hard enough for your courses, or you need help. I also imagine therapy would do you better than quitting in the middle of your second year."

"Therapy?" Robb scoffed.

"Losing a loved one takes its toll on the body and the mind, and advanced education demands the best of us." Everyone knew the story of Joanna Lannister’s death; Tywin was familiar with grief. It still didn’t feel right.

"I'm not still grieving my brother. I remember the first few months.” When he wasn’t at school at all, when he couldn’t bear to be away from his family whether they were in Winterfell in mourning or in King’s Landing trying to resume their lives. He would lay awake at night thinking of the last things he had said to Rickon, to Uncle Benjen, and all the other stuff he had ever said to either of them, what he could have said instead.

“I’ve gotten better.” Robb cleared his throat.

Tywin stood. He poured Robb a glass of water before refilling his own.

"Then you admit to slacking.” Tywin pushed the glass in his direction. “And there’s nothing more for us to say on the matter.”

"No!” Robb gripped the glass of Tywin’s desk. “I don’t mean to. It’s not like I’m not trying, okay, I’m not _lazy_. I used to be good at my schooling, Aegon’s was- easy! But…” He let go of the desk, ashamed he ever lost control in such a way in the first place. He sighed and collapsed in on himself in the chair.

“I exist in the fire of today and by the time I put it out, I’ve wasted too much time and there are more fires. Sometimes I feel like I’m doing everything I’m supposed to and I still can’t get ahead. I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about everything I have to do. Everyone expects so much from me, like it should be easier than this.” Robb almost couldn’t bear to look at him. “I don’t think I’m handling school as well as I should, I guess.”

Tywin rubbed his face. The only thing Robb could hear was his nails rasping through his beard and the ticking of the clock over Robb’s shoulder.

“These are worrying thoughts from the Heir Apparent to the Lord Paramount and Warden of the North.” Robb had heard the same thing reworded from his parents countless times, given their exceedingly high expectations of him. “Have you told your parents about your troubles?”

“No,” Robb mumbled. “I’d be letting so many people down.”

"So, where does that leave you, Robb?"

"I don’t know but I’m stressed about it.” Robb put his face in his hands. “I’m failing everything, maybe I should just fail out and run away.”

“Would you join the other peasants, toiling away for pennies until death? Where would you go that people would not recognize your Northern, highborn voice?”

Robb reached for his glass. “I don’t know.”

“Failing won’t solve your problems. Do you think you’re as strong a student as you used to be? You’re listless, you don’t know where you’re going. The approaching anniversary works against your favour, doesn’t it?”

Robb nodded then took a long sip from his glass.

“Are you back to who you were before the accident? Would your old Maester be proud to test you again?"

Robb shook his head, eyes now on Tywin’s.

"Dragonstone has an excellent counselling system, utilize it. You'll be a new man if you have patience. "

"I'm failing now."

"Because your current studies deserve your full attention but you’re stuck in the past. You have time to make up for your previously unspectacular academics once you decide if you want to stay at Dragonstone long-term.”

Robb had been avoiding this question specifically. It was easier to deal with if he would be allowed to continue his studies than if he wanted to. His friends told him to drop out and be done with it. His mind had been mind up, almost.

But of course, Tywin would see right through him. He felt almost childish, having come for help in a problem he hadn't wanted to share and attempting to use Tywin as an out in doing so. Loras claimed Tywin liked him more than most but Tywin had been suitably angered by the accusation. Without the favouritism, however, Robb was stuck wondering what made Tywin's course different.

"In the meantime, you cannot simply fail out. You need to make more time for your current studies. I assume the Lordling of the North does what he pleases on the weekends?"

"Uh, yes, My Lord.”

"Now you spend them here. You will sit and work quietly.”

"You're going to tutor me?"

"You don't need to be tutored; you need to be supervised. Considering you've shown up empty-handed, you can return this weekend with examples of your poor marks.”

Robb’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want Tywin seeing the feedback from his other professors, least of all the worst ones. "Isn’t that too much to start with? I could use the review, but I can study on my own." He didn’t dare mention his marks.

“Quite the contrary, it is not enough. Clearly, you lose yourself when set free unto the world and have no plan for your academic future. Until you do, I will manage your workload and your schedule.” Tywin leaned back in his chair and touched his rings. “Study sessions, a review session, I’d think. You'll come back at the end of every week until the end of the semester. Bring a copy of your course schedule; we must start somewhere to see how much change and discipline is needed.” 

Robb almost couldn’t speak; Tywin hadn’t even blinked before taking complete control. “This weekend.” His heart raced.

“9AM,” said Tywin.

Robb couldn’t even imagine what weekend mornings in Tywin’s office would feel like, other than dreadfully stress-inducing. Could he even focus on his work with Tywin in the same space, keeping an eye on his concentration and his focus? The idea of being supervised from start to finish, with Tywin reviewing and correcting and knowing his mistakes and struggles and how bloody shite his work apparently was… Robb stiffened from his head to his toes. 

“I will be here,” he said instead.

“Then maybe you belong in academia, after all, Lord Stark.”

Robb left Tywin’s office in a haze. Part of him felt warm and light, reassured. Tywin was one of the smartest men Robb had ever had the privilege of studying under, and now he would receive special guidance. Another part of him, specifically his very tense insides, twisted and coiled at the thought of being evaluated and so deeply involved with the intense professor.

But outwardly Robb smirked, for the largest part of him knew this: Tywin Lannister liked him well enough to immediately take him under his wing. Contrary to Loras, Robb didn’t even have to cry. The man could deny any favouritism as much as he’d like, but Robb would have every opportunity (if he wanted any opportunity) to test Tywin’s defences and push against his boundaries.

And if he overstepped and upset Tywin, by the gods Old and New, Robb just hoped he could quickly leave and make his way to the administrative office. He never spoke to his academic counsellor, a nervous man who barely understood the new computer system the university used, but he swore he would.

He could withdraw from Tywin's class before Tywin could fail him. He'd retake the class. Maybe he'd withdraw from them all and leave. He'd owe Margaery an apology, he'd owe a lot of people apologies honestly, but Old gods wouldn't it feel good to head North and light a fire in a Winterfell hearth. But Tywin was right. He couldn’t do that forever, could he? He needed someplace to land; he needed to make up his bloody mind.

 

 

 

 

### Bran

 

Bran ran through snow-covered woods on legs not his own. He knew from his stride and the feel of his body he ran as a direwolf, as he often did, large and unimpeded by the deep cold around him. He had not seen a winter like this in many years past; he feared the coming struggle for survival at the same time it set his blood lust aflame.

Two other wolves flanked him, loping steadily at the same, long-legged gait. He knew them to be Ghost and Nymeria from their pelts, from the way they nipped at his flanks to tease him and how they fell into line for the hunt. Bran howled to the moon, startling a herd of deer from a thicket and into the moonlight of the meadow. He tore after them, leaving a snowy trail in his wake, and his siblings followed, their pawprints joining his own.

He ran alongside the deer until his brother and sister turned away and left him for their own paths through the woods. Even the deer of the herd flanked away, one by one until Bran followed a lone black stag with an imposing second set of antlers growing from its crown. Its distinctive crest bobbed with its long gait as it led him across the white plains, steam puffing from its lungs like a locomotive. It ran steadily, calmly, did not fear his jaws, and Bran knew it saw him as a friend. He couldn’t turn away, fixated on the movement of its heaving body and its powerful, questing legs. Every once in a while, it tossed its great head and bellowed, and Bran could not help but howl alongside.

It gained ground and left him trailing behind no matter how hard he pushed himself, how quickly his paws left the ground. Further and further away it ran until Bran gave up, loped to a stop on the crest of a small pond. The great stag bellowed and took a step out onto the frozen surface of the pond. He watched the great stag journey further still until it ceased to run and looked back at him, eyes black and glassy and feverish.

Bran could hear a host of men in the trees with their horses and hounds. The clamouring party approached, lights and guns raised, and still, the stag did not run from its place by the waterside. Bran howled in warning and ran but no land passed beneath his feet. He was doomed to watch as the host of men closed in, doomed to listen as thunder cracked in their hands and the black stag fell with a great cry, its great double crown crashing through the ice. As the men rejoiced, the black stag bled from its neck into the cold water below and into the cracks in the surface, splintering the pond with lines of pink.

In the forest, Bran heard a boar squeal with fury. It must have followed the sounds and smell of man. The men, ignoring the cries of their own animals, ventured onto the ice and claimed their weeping trophy. The boar broke through the trees behind him and Bran ran, led the crazed monster to the men. He spun and watched with a certain glee as it stormed onto the ice and gouged them all, avenging the stag in its own conquest.

When the men lay dead alongside their trophy and their horses and hounds had all died or ran off into the dark maw of the coming winter, the boar turned its red eyes onto Bran and charged. Bran turned tail and ran North and didn’t dare look over his shoulder to see if the boar gained on him. He could hear its snorts and snarls gaining on him, and howled for his brother and sister.

Instead, ravens joined him at his flanks. They cawed and pecked and drove him on further than the great boar that huffed and roared behind him until the trees and the mountains gave way to plains of simple snow. Snow began to fall around him, overtake him. When he looked back, he could not see his own prints. The ravens swooped away and left him to journey on alone, and though he continued to howl into the wind none came back for him. Only one pair of beating wings remained, flanked him low and beat against the wind. A single raven, black as night against the violent snow.

He ran until they came to a break in the great blue crystal wall. He could see straight through to the forest on the other side, the trees no longer bowed but broken. Bran cringed back. The raven pecked at his rump, forced him forward and unto the monsters. The shadows had overtaken the light of any wildling fires and the forests rang only with the sounds of agony. In the darkness, he smelt death, like nothing he had smelt before, and the raven cried above him, again and again. Spires of ice pierced the land around him and the trees crumbled, and in the ice Bran could see the bones of lost dead men. Their iron and wood tools churned up from the depths with them. The raven cried again and flew higher, left him. They both knew he would die if he could not fly. Bran howled and the ground rolled beneath him.

Bran woke to his mother shaking him. The van was parked in the driveway and Bran’s head rested against the glass of the back window, blinking against the sight of the front lawn and the crisp afternoon sunlight. Catelyn’s eyes were red and wide and, from her phone in her hand, he could hear his father’s crying voice. “Bran, Bran I need you to wake up.” He must have fallen asleep on the way home from therapy, which had been happening more often than he would like.

“What? What’s happening?”

“Robert Baratheon has been in a hunting accident. I need to get to the hospital, no delays.”

Bran snapped awake, aware of how she was already manoeuvring his chair into position and hitting the button for the ramp to lower him to the ground. “Is that where father is?”

“Yes, he’s already by Robert’s side.” Catelyn pushed him up the ramp to the front door and into the Stark home. “Jon, Sansa, Arya, down here now!”

Bran pulled himself up to the kitchen table and waited as the other three Stark children tumbled down the stairs. Sansa had already been crying, so surely Joffrey had already told her the news, and she had told the others. Jon had his arm around her, and Arya sat down across from Bran and cringed.

“I’m sure you have heard from Joffrey, but Robert was gored by a wild boar during one of his hunting trips, and he’s in critical condition.”

“Is he gonna die?” asked Arya.

“What an awful thing to say!” Sansa cried. Jon held her tighter.

“Robert is a strong man, Arya, and he’ll have the best care and the best doctors in the world. We should assume he will make a full recovery.”

“He’s a goner,” Arya muttered to the table, head ducked. Catelyn gave her a sour look behind her head but Bran said nothing.

“I will be joining your father in the hospital. I will arrange for you to visit tomorrow, be prepared to miss part of your school day. Jon,” Catelyn pinned him with a hard stare, “I’m leaving you in charge. Do not make me regret it. Inform Maester Luwin and Rodrik, have them move the van and lock down the house.”

Jon nodded earnestly and they watched their mother tear out of the kitchen and into the master bedroom down the hall. She was out the door and down the driveway in her car in five minutes. Bran wondered how long she would be gone. Jon took off down the hallway to do as he was tasked.

“So…” Arya tapped the table. “Anyone want to watch a movie?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do all the Stark children like old men? Sorry if you showed up expecting something else.
> 
> (its me, im the stark children)


	7. Indigo Puff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya will kill to get away, Jon is still lonely, and Robb doesn't know what he's signing up for. 
> 
> "You're the one,  
> Running through my brain  
> It's in my brain  
> You're the one,  
> In my heart, in my bones and in my soul  
> You're the one that keeps me on my own
> 
> Take it in right  
> And breathe into your hungry appetite  
> Open your mind  
> Now were higher than the eastern skies"  
> -Sundara Karma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this was BETAD. So that's a plus, right? :)

### Arya

Arya tried and failed to duck out of 6th period under the guide of stomach pain. Deaf to her pleas to simply go home, her teacher sent her to the front administrative office. The academy nurse had been equally sceptical, of course.

“A stomach ache? What did you have for breakfast this morning?” She eyed Arya up and down, head tipped back and arms crossed. Arya didn’t like how she looked down her nose.

“Eggs and toast.” Arya groaned and huddled further into the small bed provided, face screwed in pain. Instead of giving her leave, the nurse had let her lay there until the school day was over. It beat sitting in class, but she didn’t have her phone and she quickly grew bored out of her mind. She dozed off and on to pass the time, wondering if Gendry was blowing up her phone. She had meant to skip out and meet him earlier than this.

The first bell rang for dismissal. Arya fled the nurse's office, stuck in the end of the day rush. The small, private northern schooling she had in her primary years couldn’t compare to the sheer size of Aegon’s Academy. And yet the halls were too crowded, and everyone bumped into her. Students stormed to the lockers and onward to freedom. Arya couldn’t blame them.

When she first began at Aegon’s, people would constantly recognize her, attempt to befriend her in stupid, superficial ways. Arya didn’t care for them nor their gifts and anecdotes. She didn’t care about making friends here. She didn’t mind most of her classmates but she would never say they were her friends. She didn’t like their older siblings a few years above her, either, the ones Sansa and Jon hung out with. When they had the same lunch period, Arya would eat with Bran and his small group. But for the most part, Arya kept to herself. She liked Gendry’s friends, liked Gendry more than anyone in Aegon’s probably but she’d never tell him.

Arya made it back to her classroom for her things. She grabbed her phone from one of the smaller pockets of her bookbag before slinging it over her shoulder.

[Gendry: ur late :P]

[You: sod off.]

She had to stop by her locker to leave most of her books and supplies. In their place, she stuffed a few books she had taken out from the library and a pair of binoculars.

 [Gendry: i told u we could meet later]

[You: shut up, its fine]

Arya shoved past a group taking up most of the main hallway and made her way outside. In the distance, she could see Bran and Jon headed towards the parking lot. Jon had driven them to school today and would drive them straight home because Bran didn’t have therapy. The weather was perfect for ditching, however.

Arya ran up to them. “I’m gonna split.”

“What? Alone? How will you get home?” said Jon. He was always brothering her, especially after Robb went to college and left a void in his place. After Bran and Rickon had gone for a ride with Uncle Benjen and only Bran had come back.

“I’ll be with friends.”

Bran narrowed his eyes at her. A year ago, they would’ve been causing trouble together. Now, he knew better than anyone she only really hung out with herself. He didn’t say anything, however, letting Jon fight the battle alone.

“Did you ask Mom?” Arya was already dancing away. Jon knew better than to reach out and try and grab her. 

“Yep!” She gave him a big grin.

“I’m serious, Ary, I won’t get in trouble for your shit again!”

“I did!” She didn’t. “I’ll see you for dinner!” She could hear Jon already complaining to Bran as she ran the other way.

[You: omw]

The underground was flooded with students from all over the city commuting home after their classes. It was a quick journey from Aegon’s to Flea Bottom. The station stank of piss but according to Gendry, it would save her a few minutes.

As she wound her way out of the station, she pulled her phone of her pocket.

[Gendry: I cant c u]

She tipped her head up and looked for the bulk of the water tower against the afternoon sky. It and the train station Gendry told her about sat between Gendry’s scrapyard and the restored Dragonpit, closer to the Iron Gate than Arya remembered. He had shown her the perch a week before and she demanded they go back as soon as possible. She couldn’t wait to scale the never-ending ladder again.

She lifted her hand and waved, knowing he would be looking through his own pair of binoculars. They were ‘old and kind of shitty’, as she had told him. But they worked, and he didn’t have better ones. It was why she had brought her own pair, a gift from her father years ago.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, and then kept buzzing.

“I can see someone who looks kinda like you but he really fuckin ugly,” said Gendry. Arya snorted. “Oh, my apologies, milord, that’s you.”

“Fuckface.” Arya shouldered her way into the street.

“I’m not ugly _and_ late.” He spoke through a mouthful of something. It sounded disgusting through his tinny phone. 

“I’ll see you in five.” She hung up on him and ran through the alleys. Gods, he was so aggravating when she accidentally proved him right. She couldn’t be blamed for Aegon’s uptight staff and policies.

She had to sneak up a fire escape to the roof. Far above her on the ledge of the water tower, she could see Gendry’s boots kicking in the breeze. She slapped a hand onto the bottom rung of the ladder so he could feel her coming and then set upwards. There had to be a thousand rungs. Before she reached the top, her arms ached with the strain.

“Took you long enough!” Gendry called, boots still swaying. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. She envied him, even with the dirt in his hair. She hefted herself the last few steps and sat on the edge, grateful for the rusted railings above them. A few paces away, Gendry sat with a notebook in his hand and his tongue between his teeth. He was looking out through his shitty binoculars, trying to spot something in the distance.

Arya made herself a place beside him and kicked her legs out underneath the railing as he did his, not minding the cold. The sun helped, as had the long climb. From her bag, she produced her better pair of binoculars and forced them into his hands. She discarded his old pair on the boards between them.

“You weren’t kidding!” Gendry laughed, sweeping his new gaze slowly left and right. “You can see everything with these!”

“Told you so.” Arya rummaged around in his bag for uneaten snacks, knowing he always had something left. Tobho Mott only made Gendry dinner, as Arya had learned, so Gendry packed his lunch for himself. He ate like an animal most days, consuming non-discriminately when given the chance. Arya was almost surprised he hadn’t grown taller, given how much he ate. He didn’t know his parents, maybe they had been short.

She found two sandwiches made from nut butter and jam, and a wrapper sticky from a third sandwich consumed earlier. Rooting around in the deepest pockets produced cheap granola that had seen better days, crumbling crackers, and a small wedge of cheese wrapped in cloth. She left that for him and stuck with a sandwich since he had two left. Gendry didn’t say a word against her, never really did, like he was teaching a wild animal to trust him by providing it food. He even started bringing more food along, once he recognized she felt no shame eating into his own lunch otherwise. Arya didn’t _need_ his food, would slip a few dollars into his bag before she left to make sure she didn’t burden him. But it felt good for him not to say no, to let her do as she wanted.

“Gods, the detail on the Dragonpit.” Gendry sighed. He desperately wanted to see the structure up-close, to run his hands on the lip between ancient stone and new. He wanted to feel the difference. He wanted to look at the dragonglass statues in the eye. Arya knew it because he had told her so. She followed his gaze out over the city, over the climb of Rhaenys’ Hill. Newly restored on Princess Daenerys’ orders, the black dome shone in the afternoon sun, glinted with the ice of winter in the south. She wondered if he could see Targaryen guards patrolling the walls and gates. None could enter. No one had ever been seen coming and going, at least.

“Some say Princess Daenerys lives up there.”

“Instead of the Red Keep?” Gendry scoffed. “It’s no palace.”

“They say she restored it for her dragons.” She paused. “They say she means to take the throne from her brother.”

“She should,” said Gendry. He was still preoccupied with her binoculars and the view he had from them.

“Do you ever wish you were destined for something great?”

Gendry looked at her, saw her eating his sandwich and didn’t care. “Nah. Tobho Mott is teaching me everything he knows, and I get to make my own shit too. Once I get my car goin, I’m gonna take a long drive.”

Arya bit her lip and stared at the half-sandwich in her hands. “Where you headed?”

“No clue.” He grinned and bumped his elbow into her. “Why, scared you’ll miss me?”

“Fuck off.” She jabbed his ribs.

“Milord is only lashing out because he can’t admit his feelings.” He set down the binoculars to fight back properly. Arya wanted to say she hated his laugh, but it was infectious.

“As if you’d last a day without me!” She wrestled her hands away from his.

“I could!” He turned suddenly to the other side of the skyline. “You can ride shotgun, though, Ary. If you wanna.”

Arya stared at the back of his ear and the hair tucked behind it. He would cut it soon, she knew. It stirred in the breeze where left unprotected by his thick hat.

“Someone’s gotta keep you alive,” said Arya.

Gendry turned back to her, residual pink on his cheeks, and grinned. He offered her the binoculars and she took them.

“If you look closely, you can see the new, lighter stone pillars.” He pointed to the bottom of the Dragonpit. They leaned in close to each other and Arya put the glasses to her face. He put an arm around her shoulders, and she could feel his body heat through his coat. Neither of them said a word about it. Arya thought they both preferred it that way.

 

### Jon

Time passed slowly for Jon. He felt like he was barely home it all, felt like his family was barely home with him either. Catelyn was busy taking over most of the immediate business. He hadn't seen his father in days because Ned barely left Robert’s side. He looked tired, strained, worn thin like he hadn't slept since he had gotten the call.

Arya had disappeared. Jon had seen neither hide nor tail of her but trusted his mother knew where she was hiding. Bran was back to his physical therapy and Sansa was visiting Robert Baratheon’s bedside along with Joffrey and Cersei. Jon had seen Renly and Stannis there as well when Jon and Arya visited. Stannis looked tired and Renly appeared more forlorn than anything. Jon couldn’t imagine the hardship of losing a brother, didn’t want to turn the idea unto his own life and let his imagination run wild with it.

Jon didn't want to think about how Robert had looked but his mind kept returning to that too. He heard even Joffrey had cried out at the sight of his father, pale and sickly as he was. But that was a rumour, and Sansa wouldn't confirm it.

Robert’s condition stabilized but he didn’t wake. It wasn't a good sign. The public didn't have the details, but they knew enough to cast suspicions. Some already mourned the patriarch of the great house. Who would be the next Protector of the Realm?

Jon refused to stay in an empty house with only his thoughts to occupy him. Bran wouldn’t be home for hours and he would likely go straight to bed, exhausted. Jon was running low on weed and unprecedentedly heavy on homework. The only course of action would be hole himself up in Aegon’s library, new and prominent on the campus. The library had more rooms than Jon could count, shone iridescent in the sun. The Targaryen’s had built it after they announced their intent to renew capital some 20 years ago before Prince Viserys himself was born.

It was largely made of dragonglass like Dragonstone itself. The bookshelves, winding staircases and parts of the ceiling were transparent. It allowed you to see people on other floors, milling throughout the shelves and seeking whatever knowledge they could find in the old paperback books. It was one of the parts he would miss the most when he graduated. He had started coming simply to see Sam as he scoured the shelves for his most recent obsession. He had far too many memories of spending time here with Sam when they were younger, not yet having found their niche. The ever-present and ever-patrolling librarians added a special thrill to whatever teenage delights were to be found between the glass stacks. Jon had traded kisses and hickeys from friends and short-lived lovers (and teammates, if he was being honest) throughout the years.

Now, they were no longer first years and Sam had a job in the library. He worked with a librarian specialist on records and government documents, and he was often too busy to indulge Jon's strange research and boyish worries. Today, Sam was nowhere to be seen. Jon was sure he was somewhere in the vast bookshelves seeking whatever tome they had assigned to him. He would find Jon eventually.

Jon set up his school supplies in front of him, optimistic about the amount of work he could get done. The library was as quiet as expected, but emptier than Jon thought it would be given the day of the week and the time in the semester. Usually, one could find students cramming in every corner, hoping to earn the kind of marks that would make their parents proud.

Jon wanted to graduate in the easiest way possible. He didn't have a plan for what happened after; his parents would have an idea of what they wanted him to do and where they wanted him to go. Catelyn was sure to suggest sending him north. Without Uncle Benjen, Jon had no real motivation to take the Black and become a Ranger. Sure, he loved the North and wanted to see lands beyond the wall again, but he wouldn’t go alone, wouldn’t sign his life away to get out of the picture. He figured he would finish school and see what happened then. Graduation crept closer and closer. Ned would tell him where to go from there. Maybe he’d join Robb and Sansa at Dragonstone, like a proper Stark.

 But for now, Jon had to study; it was the only way he would pass. He also knew the best place to concentrate and avoid the constant distractions of his friends and family, his own bad habits. In the library where people could see him and watch him work(or not work), he had to hold himself accountable. Later, he would drive home, eat, and then slowly, perhaps not as slowly as he would like, complete the last of his course work and smoke in bed.

Geography books in front of him, Jon settled in for hopefully what would be a few hours of persistent study and intense concentration. He was content to study alone. An hour or two passed before Jon blinked and realized he needed to refill his water bottle. He rolled his neck a few times, stiff from sitting over his books. He stood and filled his bottle at the fountain before meandering back to his seat. Jon wanted to go home. With the winter upon them and the new year approaching, it was already growing dark outside. The lights on the high ceiling above him buzzed, compensating for the fading sunlight with a pleasant glow.

He stayed and clocked another hour and didn't see hide or tail of Sam. He was probably in the depths of the library combing through old texts and government documents that would reveal sought-after secrets or some conspiracy Sam found himself hooked on. Jon wasn't particularly following the details, not since Sam’s reading became so specialized. He knew his friend well enough to know Sam was somewhere, focused. He didn’t necessarily forget about Jon, but he was definitely distracted by his own pet projects.  

“Jon Snow?”

Jon looked up. Before him stood Princess Daenerys and her constant companion Missandei close to her right. A few feet behind, Targaryen guards in red and black watched through heavy helmets. Jon hadn’t heard them approach. Dany hadn’t stepped into his realm and graced him with her light in so long, he felt like he was seeing her for the first time all over again. He could only stare, speechless.

Missandei cleared her throat. She had never been outright rude or cool with him, had never seemed to dislike him personally, but didn’t appear thrilled whenever he came around either. Jon assumed she, like everyone else and Jon included, knew Dany was too good for him. They were not meant to be. However, Missandei’s face gave nothing away and Jon could only speculate.

“Princess Dany,” said Jon, when his wits returned to him. He made to stand but she held up a hand and he sat back down in an instant. He wondered if he could still call her Dany. He wasn't sure if saying it now got him into any sort of trouble. Other than himself, he'd only ever heard Missandei call her that. It had started with her brother, he knew, but Jon had never had the pleasure of meeting Viserys and he doubted he would.

Dany looked almost as shell shock as Jon, as if she never expected to see him again. As if they both didn't continue to go to school together. As if they both didn't have some of the same friends. As if Jon was the one avoiding the whole situation instead of her. But he couldn't blame her. It was always a surprise to see your ex when you weren't expecting it. A bad one, even. Jon swallowed, his throat thick and dry.

 “I didn't expect to see you here.” Jon felt he could say the same. He didn't. He needed something better, something less lonely than the truth. He was studying alone in the library on a school night. The house waiting for him was empty and he dreaded going home, trying to sleep alone in the darkness. Catelyn and Ned were barely home. They weren't going to take him.

“Yeah, I've been busy.” He gestured to all the work in front of him. “I slacked off a little bit too much and now I'm paying for it.” Dany nodded. Missandei inched closer and whispered something in her ear. Then, she left with a polite smile in his direction.

Jon couldn’t speak high Valyrian but understood a clear goodbye when he saw one. It sent his heart pumping; did Dany want to speak to him alone? “How have you been?” He asked. He was horrible at small talk but she had been through so much recently, he needed to know.

“I'm all right.” It was so Dany, and the way she said it, he could only think of the riot that happened the weekend prior. The terror she felt even surrounded by her family's protection, even with her brother's arm around her shoulders. Jon would never wish it upon someone.

“Preparing for the winter session?” She was making gains politically. Her brother had been speaking to many houses privately over special dinners, feeding grand hopes every night on Dragonstone while somehow maintaining his studies. Dany herself occupied King's Landing and enrolled herself in the Academy of all the young lords and ladies, much to their parents' delight. The people favoured her too, trusted her more than any in her family. She was young, beautiful, new, and rose up from a humbler background than her forebearers. Jon knew what that meant for Dany herself even if the kingdom did not. What she wanted, if she wanted anything to do with her brother’s schemes at all, he didn’t fully know.

Jon knew she believed Targaryens belonged on the throne, above others in all ways. He believed, at the very least, the legislation put into place in the wake of her brother’s disappearance, her father’s death, and the splintering of her remaining family were largely unjust and unfair. They pushed the Targaryen household out of their rightful political seat as the head of the Seven Kingdoms and, from what she had told him, stripped them of many of their rightful titles and claims. Robert’s hatred of the Targaryen family had been well-known long before the Baratheon’s and Starks led the charge against the Old Mad King. The Lannister’s notably joined late. Jaime Lannister had sat and watched his King’s heart give out and remarkably did nothing, all while Lannister forces stormed and sacked the city.

The Targaryen house could fight it all piece by piece, undo amendments and redo signatures of all the Great Houses. The Tyrells were notorious for their unrequited love for Rhaegar and his children. The Kingdom of Dorne supported their Princess and her husband in their death. The people of the Crownlands remained loyal to the King Aerys and his line despite all the horrors he brought to being from his senile old mind. Jon had no doubt many of the people from other kingdoms would support them and demand their highborn representatives pledge support as well.

A common rumour in the slums believed Rhaegar fled to Essos and the Free Cities rather than being murdered in a dark, cold alley. Some of the highborn thought him in Dorne with his lost wife’s family. And, of course, most everyone hoped he would miraculously return home when word of a Targaryen on the throne reached him.

Jon didn’t know what to believe, but he knew Dany hoped for great things and deserved them all. He didn’t know if she wanted Viserys on the throne, from what little Dany had told him and what she had undoubtedly kept to herself. But he trusted her and believed she would make a great leader one day, no matter the scale, when given her full chance.

“Yes! Gods, I’ve hardly had a moment to think or sleep.” Daenerys took the liberty of sitting close next to him. He pushed some of his books out of the way to make room for her. She settled in, smiling. “What about you, Jon? Taking any winter courses? Preparing for a family reunion in the North?”

“No courses, no.” Jon closed one of his books and pushed it away with the others. “We go to Winterfell for the New Year and enjoy the snow. By this time of year, it piles higher than men and overtakes trees in some places.”

“Winterfell in a blanket of snow sounds lovely,” said Dany, all too eager. He wished she would come with him and his family. He could show her everything he loved about the city and the castle, could show her his room and the weirwood and the Heart Tree. They could go riding or he could take her for an open carriage ride and keep her warm with furs and blankets. He longed to put an arm around her shoulders and draw her a bit closer, to kiss her temple with his nose in her hair as he had grown fond of and tell her about all these things.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, instead of doing anything so grandiose.

Dany smiled. “I’ve missed you too, Jon Snow.” His heart ached again like a physical wound. It must have shown for her eyes dropped down to her books. “Our parting wasn’t as genial as I’d hoped. I said things I did not mean; I’m sorry if I’ve caused you great anguish.” Her hand slipped down and rested on his knee, squeezed it for good measure.

He could resist the urge no longer and put his arm around her shoulders. Behind them, he could hear the Targaryen guards shift on their feet, their heavy armour creaking as they tensed, poised and ready to charge for the safety of their Princess. She did not object to the contact so Jon pushed forward. “Breakups are never easy, Princess. I have… regrets and I wish we could’ve been happy together, but I don’t hate you for anything, Dany.” He squeezed her tight and she tucked her face into his shoulder. “Anything.”

“Jon, I love you but-” he listened to her breathe, quietly steadying herself beneath his ear. The heat of her body against his was intoxicating and familiar. “We will never be, not again. My brother would not allow it.” She squeezed his knee again but did not say more. During the breakup she had spoken about their incompatibility; he assumed then it had been between them, not their titles or families. He didn’t care, not when he had the truth now.

“I will love you in any way you can bear, Dany, regardless of what your brother may say or has said.” There was anger in his chest, boiling beneath his nerves. He saw the grief in her caused by her brother and wanted to save her from it. “He has no great agency over your life, you are the Princess. You get to choose your life.”

“It’s not that simple, Jon.”

He swallowed tightly. “I am a bastard; our union would be no threat to him or his throne.”

“He means to marry me, Jon.” She pulled back from his embrace. His knee felt cold without her palm, his body suddenly lonely without hers. “And I am compelled to him, as one of his subjects.”

“That’s too much,” said Jon. Distantly, he wondered where his filter had gone. “They’ll never let him marry _his sister_ , you know that.” Of course, it had been the wrong thing to say, especially now.

 “Then he will marry me off! It is his decision as my older brother and King.” Dany pulled further away from him, her gaze across the room. “This is why I didn’t want to bring it up again. I’m sorry for upsetting you.” She held one of her elbows close to her side.

“It’s okay.” It hurt but he would rather know the truth. He glanced away from her, back to his books. “I love you,” he said, like an idiot. She turned and blinked at him. “I love you so much I was almost sick with it. I tried to get over you.” He can’t help but laugh, an empty feeling taking over his chest.

She took his hand. “Tell me.”

He had to drink before he could continue. She wiped his eyes as he recapped his bottle, and he knew he was forgiven for all things. He could almost weep fully at the thought but didn’t. Maybe he would later, in the dark of his room in his empty house.

“I got dressed up, went out, went home with a stranger.” He had to put his free hand over his face, couldn’t look in Dany’s direction at all. Gods, he felt whorish. “We had sex and that was great but turns out it was the worst choice I could’ve made that night.” He sighed.

Dany squeezed his hand and smiled and Jon felt a little better. She probably considered him _a bit_ slutty for going out for a rebound but only a bit. He could live with that. She was holding his hand for the first time in more than a month. He had missed it, and her, almost too much to bear. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Jon. “I was trying to get you out of my head. In my attempts, I made it worse for myself. I’m to blame.”

“You’re always so hard on yourself, Jon Snow.” She reached up and pulled his head down so she could kiss his widow’s peak. “You are worthy of love. I wish I could give you what you deserve but I can’t. You should find someone who can.” She let him sit up straight again. “Maybe that person is not to be found through anonymous hook-ups…”

Jon shook his head sheepishly. “I ruined it; it wasn’t him. A whole sea of strangers and I-”

“Oh?”

“I wanted to forget everything for one night, but I picked the one stranger in the middle of it all.”

“I’m not following.” Dany frowned.

“Do you remember me telling you about Ygritte?” There was no use being vague now. Dany nodded. “Well, she has a much older brother I didn’t know and never met.” Dany nodded again, wary, and he knew she knew where this was going. “I found him at a bar, apparently.”

“Oh, Jon, no-”

“Oh yes, I went home with him.”

“Jon!”

“It gets worse! In the morning, Ygritte called, I recognize her contact and _blurt_ out her name. Which leads to a conversation about how we both know her and I’m wondering if this is her _Dad_ or something because of course, they look alike.” Dany snorted at this. He was almost shocked at how easy it was to tell her all of this. At how easy it was to make light of it. “Then he got weird about my age, not like, his sister knowing me or anything like that. I stormed out.”

Dany lost to a small fit of laughter, clutching at his arm as it overtook her. “Oh, Jon, I’m sorry! This can’t be real, can it?”

“It can. It’s my life,” he said, but it did help to talk it over with someone. He hadn’t yet, not even with Robb. “The worst part, I left one of my good pullovers behind.”

“Is there any way of getting it back?”

Jon hadn’t put much thought to it. He had been too busy dealing with the idea of Tormund and/or Ygritte knocking on the front door to confront him. Then he didn’t know what to do with the fact he had Tormund’s sweatshirt in place of his own. What if Tormund had already thrown his pullover away? Or lost it? These things felt more likely to him, and so Jon had already resigned to keeping the grey sweatshirt instead.

He left it in his room, hadn’t worn it more than once since he had made the train ride home. One night though, he slipped it on after a shower when his hair was still wet. It was too big for him and smelt like Tormund had, of fresh laundry and woodsmoke and winter. Jon wore it to bed and fell asleep with his nose on the collar. When he woke well-rested in the morning, he hung the sweatshirt up and resigned not to wear it until he put it through the wash. The scent of Tormund made his dreams warp in strange, shameless ways.

“I have his number,” Jon admitted. Tormund’s contact was still saved for Jon’s state of mind. He couldn’t handle the idea of Tormund calling or messaging and Jon needing to ask ‘who’s this?’ “And I could return _his_ sweatshirt.” It may be good to be rid of it, the enthralling thing it was.

“Call him, demand an exchange!” Dany prodded him.

The idea of confronting Tormund so aggressively made his stomach turn. “I don’t want to be rude. He wasn’t a complete ass.” He bit his lip. “It was scary at first because I was drunk and nervous but he was good to me.” Jon didn’t have more than a handful of experiences to base his judgement, but he knew it had only gone to shit in the end.

“Request an exchange, then,” said Dany.

“I’ll call him…” He could handle a phone call with Tormund, probably. He wouldn’t demand anything of the man though.

“Do it.” Dany smiled. “I’ll stay with you.”

Jon grabbed his phone and ignored how his hand shook. She pulled his left hand across his lap and into hers. Jon turned to her and put one of his legs between their chairs. She turned to mirror him. 

The phone rang once, twice, and Jon thought Tormund might let it ring. How embarrassing. A third ring. He wouldn’t leave a voice message. He might text, just in case this wasn’t purposeful, the man could be busy-

“Jon Snow?” There was background chatter from Tormund’s side. Jon wondered where he was. Dany leaned inched closer to him until her knee knocked into his seat, close enough to hear Tormund through his phone.

“Hey, uh, Gods, okay, I don’t know if you remember-”

“I remember,” said Tormund. “I’m glad you called.” Jon’s mouth snapped shut; he wanted to scream. How did Tormund manage to sound so neutral? And why? He sounded cordial, at best. Still, Jon could not deny his words and what they should mean.

“Oh, good. Sorry to bother you but I was hoping we could exchange pullovers. I left mine in your hotel room and took yours out.”

“Yes, I noticed that after you left.” Jon could hear a door opening and closing and the din from Tormund’s line quieted. “Sorry for driving you out like that.”

“That’s not- we don’t have to get into it right now. When would be the earliest we could meet up?” Jon squeezed Dany’s hand.

“Tonight,” said Tormund, immediate, “Or any other night after 8. I’m in King’s Landing for another week.”

 “He sounds eager.” Dany prodded Jon in the side where he was open and vulnerable from holding the phone to his ear.

Jon twisted away from her fingers, praying Tormund couldn’t hear anything distinctive from her whispering. “I could do tomorrow.” He bit his lip. He didn’t feel like himself. Dany was right, though, Tormund sounded eager for him. “Do you know the Hunstman? It’s a pub on the Waterfront.”

“I’ll find it,” Tormund replied so quickly it made Jon’s head spin. 

“Sounds handsome too,” whispered Dany. Jon rolled his eyes and she grinned.

“8:30 then,” said Jon.

“I’ll have drinks waiting.” At the charm in his voice, Dany prodded Jon’s side again and forced a grin to his face.

“Goodbye, Tormund,” he said.

“I’ll see you soon, Jon.”

The call ended with two soft tones. Dany stood up and clasped him around the shoulders, an infectious grin overtaking her face. “So daring, Jon Snow _._ ”

Jon could only think of how he wouldn’t have to spend as much time at home this weekend. He could even buy dinner at the pub, if he wished, could sit and eat with Tormund if it went well. His mind raced with the possibilities, both good and bad.

“He wasn’t all bad. And he’s leaving soon anyway.”

“What about Ygritte?” Dany asked. Jon had been thinking about Ygritte more in the past week than in the past few months. He would hate to hurt again, didn’t want to risk it.

“I just want my sweater back,” Jon said, floating above himself, spinning with thought. “It was over a year ago, Ygritte’s over me. I doubt Tormund is looking to fall in love, he’s like, 30.”

“It’s a shame your rebound didn’t work, but maybe it could still end sweetly. He sounded nice enough.” She stood him up with guiding hands. “You should go home and rest, prepare for tomorrow.”

“I suppose.” Dany helped him pack his bag. She grabbed his hand as he turned for the door and they walked together. The Targaryen guards parted for them and then fell in line behind, ever watchful. Dany didn’t seem to notice them, and Jon supposed she wouldn’t having been raised with them her whole life. Jon himself sometimes lost sight of the servants, cooks, and cleaners that regularly tended the Stark home in King’s Landing and the Winterfell Castle during their summer stay. It was a sort of blindness only the highborn had, the ability to politely ignore the labour and toil of those technically below you. It didn’t sit well with Jon.

They paused at the front doors to the library, in the foyer with the grand staircase and the many administrative offices and even the small café tucked away in the corner. Dany glanced around and at once Jon realized she had not stopped touching him since she had started. The library was particularly empty today like she had requested it to let her roam freely. But her wary gaze said otherwise, looking for people to run and tell her secrets to anyone who would listen. It was a curse, royal blood. Everyone wanted to know your life, she had told him.

“I hope this helps you heal,” she said, taking both his hands between them and smiling up at him. He longed to kiss her so much he could swear he felt her lips already. “Know I will always care for you and you will always be my friend, Jon Snow.” She leaned up and he leaned down obligingly, and she kissed the crown of his head again.

“Thank you, Princess.” He squeezed her hands but did not dare kiss her in return.

“Come to me for anything, with any of your troubles or happiness. I miss you,” she reiterated.

He nodded and Dany let him go. He watched her lead her guards back into the depths of the library until he couldn’t see her anymore, then turned outdoors. It was cold outside and a thin layer of snow on the ground. He drove too fast and bypassed the traffic of Fishmonger’s square, his mind a mess.

Tormund was a good enough man on the surface; Jon liked to think his sense of people wasn’t terrible. If he had one week left in King’s Landing, Jon wanted to see him again, put his fingers through the man’s hair, but only if he knew what kind of family Tormund was visiting, if he had a wife and children waiting for him somewhere. The first time he hadn’t known so he could tuck his guilt away. But he would not help someone cheat on their family. Jon would drink a beer with him and leave, pullover in hand and pride relatively in-tact.

 

 

### Robb

Robb woke in the early morning to only piss and guzzle a bottle of water before falling back into bed next to Theon. His phone was still dead, and his last thought was to plug it in and place it on the bed stand next to him. When he woke up a second time and turned it on, he was already running late.

They’d gone out the night before. He shouldn’t have but Theon had asked and Robb wanted to let loose. Not think for a while. They drank and smoked and stayed up far too late before taking a train and shambling back to Robb’s flat. There they stayed up even later because Theon could never keep his hands to himself and Robb loved him far too much.

The last thing he wanted was to be late for his first studying session with Tywin but he didn’t want to look a mess either. He showered in seconds, feeling a bit like a new recruit, and sacrificed a chance at breakfast to dress and smell nice. He ran his hands through his hair, pulled on a pair of shoes, and ran out the door.

Robb ran all the way across campus in fact, thankful that the glass wall of Tywin’s office faced the fields and the man wouldn’t see him. Winded from the short sprint, he paused to grab his breath at the bottom of the stairs in Tywin’s building and cursed his own slacking fitness.

He took the stairs two at a time, eyeing the hands on his watch. A slim margin for tardiness. It shouldn’t warrant punishment. Robb nearly tripped at the top of the stairs at the thought but recovered. By the time he knocked on the door, his breath hadn’t even steadied. He fixed his hair once again. Given the strict etiquette for the man’s lectures, Robb didn’t want to underperform right off the bat.

“Come in.”

Robb pushed through the doorway and turned to shut the door behind him. He hesitated, then kept his shoes on. He didn’t remember the room being so large, nor the glass wall so wide. The morning sun streamed in liberally. Tywin sat in one of two high-backed reading chairs in the corner. He gestured to the hooks by the door and Robb hung his coat there.

“Good morning, Lord of Casterly Rock.” Robb sat across from him, his bag at his feet.

“Cutting it close on your first day doesn’t lend to your reputation, Lord Stark.” Tywin held a book in one hand, his middle finger bisecting the pages as if he meant to resume his reading. His bitterness cut Robb’s jovial mood down to size. “What kept you?”

“Alarm didn’t go off.” He thought it best not to give Tywin too many details.

Tywin snapped his book closed; he didn’t look fooled. “I expect you to be punctual.”

“It won’t happen again,” said Robb.

Tywin held out a hand. “Your schedule.”

Robb dug through his bag and handed over the copy he had printed the day before. Tywin’s eyes roved over it quickly.

“When do you go to bed?”

Robb blinked. “11 or 12, most nights.” Tywin was already shaking his head.

“You’ll need to be in bed at 10. Wake up at 6.” Robb thought it strict and it must have shown on his face. “My time is wasted on a pupil who is not ready to learn. Sleep is vital; you’ll also exercise and eat regularly to restore your health.”

“That’s a lot-”

“Too much?” Tywin handed the schedule back to him, brow raised. “These are bare minimums.”

“I’m not in poor health,” said Robb. Tywin waited for any more objection. Robb didn’t continue, nor did he stand and leave.

“You said you couldn’t think straight, mistreated yourself in the worst of times. What else am I to do with you if I cannot trust you to eat? Your betterment and your health are no joke. The new rules will be crafted around your daily routine to support you in reaching your goals and living your best life. We can tailor towards your personal health needs to support your lacking self-care while reinvigorating your academics as well.”

“I didn’t expect this level of engagement from the Lord of Lannister himself.” A long, guiding talk, sure, or maybe a kind word and help with the approaching final exam in Tywin’s course. In his wildest daydreams, Tywin shoved him under the big glass desk in the centre of the room and Robb kept his cock warm for hours in exchange for a passing grade. But not this. 

“Nor did I expect this dearth in the Young Wolf of Winterfell.” Tywin looked him up and down, frowning. “I see you have no extracurriculars to speak of, either.”

“No.” Robb swallowed. “I played rugby last year…”

Tywin hummed thoughtfully. Robb was happy he didn’t have to explain. “Such areas can wait. For now, you must eat, sleep, and exercise as you did when you were tended to, chaperoned by adults who understood your true priorities. We’ll block everything in accordingly.”

“Everything.” Robb felt like a parrot. He also felt like Tywin didn’t grasp his full meaning. Robb couldn’t schedule _everything_ into his week.

“As you improve, you may argue for less structure while maintaining certain goals and activities each week. Regardless, I expect details from your progress and reports of your results in all things, Lord Stark. Will that be a problem?”

“No.” Robb was still wondering how many of his activities would be jotted down on the calendar, if it would go by the day or even the hour. In a way, he craved the very idea of it. He might not perform according to Tywin’s full standards, but it would feel good to try, to improve as Tywin said. Another part of him dreaded all of this and all the inner turmoil it would bring him. He wanted to stand up and pace the room and found himself stuck in his chair instead.

“What’s the price of your time?” Robb was afraid he had very little to offer. Contrary to what his rampant imagination had to say, Tywin Lannister probably did not accept sexual favours as a form of payment. He was a sought-after man; there were better people who wanted and deserved his audience.

“I want you as my TA next term. I will consider the next few weeks as an investment on that basis. Depending on the results of your final exams and if you decide to continue your academics, we can discuss the position again over winter break.”

 Robb’s brain buzzed. It was a far more appropriate suggestion than Robb sought, though anything inappropriate he internally baulked from. Assisting Tywin would be even more intensive than whatever followed in the next few weeks, Robb had no doubt. What if he didn’t want that sort of responsibility on top of trying to recover? Tywin would quickly wash his hands of him. An investment, he had said. What if Robb failed? No more Dragonstone, no more of anything he knew as his current life.

“Why me?” Robb’s leg bounced. He wished he could glance at the clock without Tywin noticing.

“A handful of students approach me each year seeking advancement. I had thought you might be one of them, given your previous enthusiasm and merit in my course, but your first year did not go as smoothly as one might hope. You never came around.”

“And now?” Robb needed to know what changed, why Tywin was so ready for this turn of events.

“This is a perfect opportunity to explore our working relationship. If this arrangement is unsatisfactory in any way, we’ll wipe our hands of it and resume our lives.”

“What if I fail out anyways and you’ve wasted all your time?” Robb tried stopping his knee and couldn’t. Tywin hadn’t mentioned it yet but he would.

“Stop entertaining what-ifs.” Robb blinked at the finality in his voice. “If you weren’t smart enough for schooling, your father would’ve paid your way. He _should_ be paying for tutors and the guidance you need, as his son and heir, but a father cannot help with problems he’s unaware of. You’ve come to me, which shows how little Lord Stark knows of your troubles.”

Robb glanced away, knowing it to be true. He had stopped checking in with his parents after his first year and he spoke to his father less frequently now than he ever had. As the oldest, they should have to worry about him the least. Bran and Arya were still so young. His mother had understood his suffering grades last year, but he doubted she’d be lenient again. Rickon couldn’t be his excuse forever. He’d fail at least one class and he knew it would be hellish explaining to his parents. With Tywin’s help, it could be only one course.

When Robb looked up, Tywin sat looking expectant. Robb could only hear the clock on the wall. He wondered if he had sunk into his thoughts for a few minutes. “You’ll be my Maester if you guide my studies and monitor my health.”

“Yes.”

“Maesters traditionally also handle matters of the family and estate,” said Robb. “Maester Luwin was my mother’s midwife for me and my first sister.”

“Maesters also traditionally report to the Lord of the castle, whereas I report to no one. Your grades will be your own. It is your responsibility to explain them to your father.”

“No phone calls to my parents.”

“No.”

“My Lord and Maester in-one.” Robb wanted to snap his teeth shut. He was too hot _all over_ for this. It was painful not to tear off his pullover but he didn’t dare, couldn’t move in his seat under Tywin’s gaze.

Tywin only stared at him. “It would appear so,” he said, after a moment.

“Have you done this before?” Robb hoped his face was not as red as his hair but he had no way of knowing. This was the opposite of the conversation he wanted. His throat burned, too dry and hot for proper speech.

“No. We will both sacrifice a great deal of time to this type of endeavour. As established, I have precious little to spare.” Tywin kept Robb pinned in his seat. He sat, waiting and watching Tywin with the man waiting and watching in-turn, no doubt thinking of his next words. Robb twisted his fingers into the seat cushion beneath him as quietly as he could.

“I did teach Jaime how to read when he was a child. The maester came to me one day, told me he wasn’t learning. He couldn’t make sense of the letters. He reversed them in his head.” Tywin paused again for a moment.

The wait was killing him, but Robb stayed silent. Tywin never left room for interjections in his lectures, never invited collaboration or arguments to his material. This one-on-one conversation was a whole different game.

“Dyslexia. But we didn’t know then. I sat Jaime down for four hours every day until he learned. He hated me for it, for a time. For a long time. But he learned.”

Robb couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. Tywin had a pensive twist to his brow that Robb preferred to leave alone. He had met Jaime Lannister, liked him well enough. He hoped Loras all the best with his interests in the man. Robb didn’t want to invite the comparison between his situation and Tywin’s own son and heir. Even feeling it out in his head felt wrong.

“My sister Arya refused to go to school.” Robb thought back to Arya crying every morning. She didn’t like being stuck in school all day and struggled with the crowds. “Though that was more a matter of temperament.” 

“Some are not meant for it,” said Tywin. “They find their strengths in other areas.” Robb couldn’t help but think of himself, wondering if he was meant for it, if he could pick himself up and graduate on-time. “Others fight for it and prove their merit.”

Robb knew Tywin spoke of him and his circumstance, his chance. Robb didn’t expect it to be easy. He hoped to have Tywin as an ally, to make it _easier._ He let himself sit with the notion for a moment, his schedule in Tywin’s hand.

“Didn’t you want another day of my time, My Lord?” Robb slipped a hand into his bag and grabbed a notebook. It would be nice to have a record, to have words and promises to ink. He could feel Tywin watching him as he wrote a few lines. It wasn’t the kind of information Tywin would ask for. If Robb shared his notes and thoughts, that was his choice.

He flipped the page and looked up, pen poised and ready for more. Tywin’s expression gave nothing away. Robb tried not to assume anything from it. Thoroughness was surely sought after in pupils.

“On the third day, I teach another lecture in your Strategic Management hall. It ends at four. You can meet me there.” Robb fought the urge to swallow in the quiet room. That would mean people seeing him show up and wait for Tywin every week until the end of the term. There was no way of explaining that away, someone was sure to talk about it. He was the Heir to the North and Tywin the Lord Paramount of the West. Any interaction would be noted.

Robb didn’t enjoy being so easily recognizable. People knew him, saw his Tully-blood and heard his northern voice even if they didn’t know his highborn status. There were few southern-looking northern Lordlings in Westeros; he was a constant attraction to southern nobility. Dragonstone was a whole different beast altogether. Few of his peers didn’t know him and his name. Even fewer tried to sidle close and leech off him. There were so many other highborns and Lordlings in attendance and Robb was well into his second year. With Prince Viserys on campus most days, ‘Robb Stark’ was essentially old news. The commotion would rebuild when Sansa joined the student body. She was beautiful and unstoppable; she would entice many suitors, many leeches.

“I think three hours should be enough. You’ll need to adhere to your curfew.”

Robb hadn’t had a curfew since he moved out. His first dorm had provided enough freedom for him to drown in. His courses had been so easy, too. “Yes, My Lord.”

“Would you prefer to block in your socialization, or shall I?” Tywin held his pen up like a dare in Robb’s face.

“I will.” Robb took the pen and paper both. He drank in the red blocks and labels already drawn against the white and grey of his class schedule beneath. He wished his own capital penmanship looked as elegant as Tywin’s. “How much time do I get for it?”

“How much time do you need?”

Robb looked at the space available to him. “More on weekends.”

“Show me your bare minimums then.”

Robb regarded the red pen in his hand. There was no going back, short of starting over from the beginning. Whatever he wrote in for himself would be permanent, would perhaps hold true until the end of his semester. Failure threatened in his lack of follow-through on the promises they both made in red pen.

He passed it back to Tywin and watched him look it over. He held out a hand for his pen and Robb passed it back to him. When Tywin returned his schedule, Robb saw new ‘Exercise’ and ‘assignments’ blocks added.

“Bare minimums?”

Tywin nodded.

“What are my assignments?” Robb eyed the various segments. They were different than his ‘schoolwork’ neatly sectioned off each afternoon. The weekly blocks with Tywin were separate, as well.

“You will know what needs to be done each week. Housework, errands, any areas of weakness on your part. Favours and sometimes acts of service for me.”

Robb looked at him over the schedule in his hand.

“Are you uncomfortable with anything I’ve proposed thus far?”

 “No, My Lord.”

“Tell me if and when that changes.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Robb handed the schedule back to Tywin.

“Your work?” Tywin held out his other hand. 

Robb shoved a fist into his bag and passed the marked papers and tests along. He hadn’t brought everything for fear of incriminating himself too far. He had tried to grab a few assignments from earlier in the semester too. His current turmoil was not a great reflection of his strengths and weakness as a student.

Tywin took some time to look through Robb’s old work. He made Robb sit and wait, didn’t give him leave or tell him anything more. Robb found himself glancing around the room. It was difficult to let his eyes land on one thing, for he didn’t want to be caught staring and called on for it. His leg bounced until he couldn’t resist anymore and got to his feet.

Tywin pinned him with a stare. Robb moved anyways. He made no apology or excuse for it, simply took to inching his way along the wall of bookshelves Tywin had to his left. Tywin didn’t say a word and after a moment of Robb’s collar burning, he saw the Lord shift back to Robb’s work in hand. Robb held back a sigh and turned his mind to the book spines.

Some were older and had no lettering, some had lettering in languages he could not read. Most were black, grey, or brown, and collectively they darkened this side of the room. He wondered why Tywin kept these books in this office specifically, if he should assign grand meaning from the titles available and what they meant about the man in question or if they meant nothing at all.

Robb turned to the sunlight streaming in through the window behind him, wondering how dark the room grew at dusk as it would not face the setting sun. Would he stay late enough to see it?

“Your marks are poor.” Tywin dropped his papers to the small, round table in front of him. “But they are not as poor as they could be.”

Robb let go of the breath he had been holding. He returned to Tywin's side. “Fixable, My Lord?”

“Salvageable,” Tywin corrected. “You have solid foundations, despite your lack of confidence. I encourage you to seek out an official tutor for your maths, sciences, and histories, in addition to your time spent here.”

A Maester, a tutor, a shrink, what next? “You said I didn’t need tutoring.”

“It would be a waste of my time. It would not be a waste of someone else’s.”

Robb felt his neck burn. “A waste of your time.”

Tywin looked him up and down. He shifted in his seat, leaning on his right elbow. “I am providing you with the opportunity to complete your coursework to the fullest of your known abilities. I will track major assignments, structure your time, and review your work but I will not walk you through it each and every problem you encounter.” Robb’s pride stung. Tywin persisted. “There are tutors for your specific courses. I am not a Professor of History or Maths, mind you.”

"Of course, My Lord." He made a bare effort to hide the emotion in his voice.

Tywin sighed and then pointed at his desk. “Fifty minutes.”

Robb frowned, his eyes flitting between the desk and Tywin’s ring. “Fifty minutes?”

“You did bring coursework, did you not?”

His bag was laden with texts and first-drafted essays, half-started and half-solved arithmetic. Robb nodded.

“Fifty minutes of study, Lordling Stark.”

“What happens after fifty minutes?” He sensed he was pushing it now. He could see a vein in Tywin’s forehead where he swore he hadn’t before. But it would bother him, not knowing. Surely ten minutes of _something different_ came after, maybe more. Robb’s mind flit from option to option, stuttering over a few favourable ones. These kind of games wracked his brain, were the only thing he could think about. Margaery liked to play on his anticipation in similar ways, albeit under completely different circumstances. Now his brain followed the familiar path.

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

Robb frowned for Tywin to see. He approached the desk nonetheless. It was a beast of old wood and glass, same as the bookshelves on the wall. Sitting behind it was like crossing through a doorway to a private bedroom. He wondered how long Tywin had had it, if any of the drawers locked. Tywin trusted him. He was permitted to sit at the man’s private desk and use his bloody pens. Loras would be having a field day.

Robb tried to concentrate on the book assigned for his Essos history course, but those precious ten minutes kept creeping closer and closer and it was all he could think about. He could barely stand it. He heard Tywin stand. Robb kept his head ducked down and didn't dare track his movements around the room.

When Tywin had his nose in his book again, Robb glanced at the clock. He felt he had read a large enough chunk of the assigned pages. He couldn’t remember any of it but Tywin didn’t need to know that. Maybe he would anyways. Robb was too busy keeping his stomach quiet and his heart calm to care.

“Time.” Tywin waved him over and Robb stood, stretched as he returned to the comfy reading chairs. There was tea, to which Robb blinked.

Tywin poured him a small cup.

“Thank you.” Robb took it with a smile. He allowed himself to settle back into the chair. It felt a bit like a guest right without the bread and salt. Tywin looked more relaxed than earlier, his eyes on the papers in his lap. Robb’s papers. Robb looked away, allowed to gaze about the room for details he didn’t have time for before. He’d be spending a good amount of time in here, it seemed, but it still hadn’t set in. The glass wall let in so much light, especially this time of day, and he could smell the sea and smoke of the island through the air system. It smelt like Tywin, too, and Robb wondered how much time he spent here, if he had a better office elsewhere. Surely his at Casterly Rock would be the finest.

“How is the Valyrian Freehold?”

Robb’s head snapped to Tywin, ears burning with guilt for drifting away. “Pardon?”

“You’re reading for History of Essos and the Free Cities with Aemon Targaryen. He loves Beldecar.” Of course he knew, he had seen Robb’s schedule. “So, in what state is the Valyrian Freehold?”

“Fighting the Rhoynish wars, My Lord.” Robb glanced over his face.

“They span a thousand years.”

Robb wanted to groan. Robb should’ve known Tywin would want details. What else was the point of him being here, studying under watchful eyes? “The Second Spice War. The Valyrian Freehold is uniting against Chroyane.”

“Ah, and what of the Prince?”

Robb fought the urge to set his cup down and scream into his hands. He should’ve known. “I can’t remember.”

“What were you doing for 50 minutes?”

“Reading...” 

“Clearly,” Tywin scoffed. “Prince Garin of Chroyane was the Wonder of Rhoyne. He led the Rhoynish force against Valyria. They slaughtered him.”

“He killed three dragons,” countered Robb. “That’s more than many can claim.”

“It was poor planning. The Valyrian Freehold returned with 300 and brought him to heel. As you will be if you do not concentrate on your studies and waste my time further.” Tywin pointed to his desk. “Another fifty minutes, Young Lord.”

Robb stood and returned to the desk. He almost couldn’t bear it. The words ‘brought to heel’ repeated over and over in his head, sent him stumbling into darker and darker places. Tywin resumed reading his earlier book in the corner of the room, silent and vigilant. Robb ached to know what filled that book, if time passed as slowly for him as it did for Robb. If Tywin glanced at him, watched him when he couldn’t see. He struggled to rein his mind in, to calm his jumping legs and focus on the matter at hand.

“I suggest notes to retain what you read or next time you will dictate to me,” said Tywin.

“Yes, My Lord.” Robb knew the man could see him fidget, took it as the sign of distraction as it was. He brought his pad of paper and pen to position for his right hand. He forced his legs to still, forced his eyes to the page, to pretend to concentrate if he could not in that very moment. He felt Tywin’s eyes on the crown of his head and wondered if his hair looked unruly from that angle, then wondered Tywin’s opinion on his Tully-red hair in general. The man had an opinion on everything, knew what angle to take with every piece of information you gave him.

Robb didn’t flatter himself by following that train of thought for too long. Beyond marriage, Stark children were of relatively little interest to the Lord of Lannister. With Sansa and Joffrey’s presumed union, there was also no need to arrange any sort of match. Tywin dealt with Robb’s father on matters of business alone. Ned knew Robb was taking one of Tywin’s classes, would have the good grace to mention it when the two men spoke. He thought of Tywin mentioning Robb’s need for tutelage during these discussions, if it would ever come up naturally. Robb swallowed heavily; he still hadn’t written anything down. Surely Tywin knew he wasn’t paying proper attention to his task. He turned a page mechanically, his stomach turning with nerves and growing hunger. 

Minutes ticked by in agony. His stomach growled audibly but Tywin said nothing. Robb could hear the clock he couldn’t see. His only choice was to glue his eyes to the book and read. One line at a time. Then time passed easier, paragraph by paragraph. He paused to write down names and dates and facts but otherwise refused to lose his momentum.

“Time.” Robb dropped his pen as if stung. He leaned back in the chair and regarded Tywin sitting in his own. He had one finger bisecting the pages again, clearly intent on continuing when Robb’s break was over. Robb stood and took his notes with him when he sat across from his new maester. There was no tea waiting for him this time.

“The Rhyonish Wars,” Tywin prodded, wanting a review of what Robb had read.

Robb cleared his throat and relayed what he had written down about the fall of the Chroyane, the death of Prince Garin and the Valyrian monopoly on that side of the world. Tywin looked more impressed with his results this time around.

“Much better.” Tywin placed a bookmark in place of his finger. “I expect this kind of notetaking from now on. Don’t be afraid to highlight and underline as you read.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Tywin stood and crossed the room. Robb itched to stand and follow. He could hear and see Tywin clinking about in the miniature refrigerator behind his desk but had no idea what he was doing. He put his hands on the armrests of his chair and lifted himself to his feet. “My Lord?”

“Sit.”

Robb planted himself down again, gritting his teeth. It was anguish to wait without objecting, but he did so.

Tywin turned and approached carrying a platter. He placed it on the small table in front of Robb and retreated again for what was left behind. Robb roved his eyes over the meal before him though it may not be for him at all. There was wedged cheese, a bread loaf broke in half, a salad of lettuce and tomato, whole pickles, and two pork pies. Alongside was a small bowl and spoon for chutney and a bed for the butter. Surely Tywin would not eat such a feast in front of him, would at least dismiss him for the afternoon before partaking in his lunchtime meal.

“My Lord?” Robb tried again, desperate for any sort of response. Tywin returned and placed another small platter before them, this one covered with slices of apple, onion, leek, hardboiled egg, and ham. It was far too much for one man. Robb met Tywin’s gaze.

“I do not expect you to perform your best on an empty stomach.”

He must have heard Robb’s stomach howling earlier. But the food was prepared beforehand. Tywin planned this. Robb turned his eyes to the food before him rather than think about the flush of his coiling up his chest and to his ears.

“That’s very kind of you, My Lord.”

“I expect you to get three meals a day from now on.” Tywin sat down across from him and Robb settled back in his chair to mirror him. He watched Tywin pick up a small plate and pick pieces for himself.

“Are you waiting for me to serve your plate?” Tywin’s tone made it clear Robb should never presume such a thing. Robb shook his head and scooted forward in his chair. He forked a few things onto his own plate. It was tempting to pile his plate high and stuff his face, but he wanted to maintain some level of composure. He didn’t want the man to see him as a pig or a slob. They ate slowly, in a silence Robb wouldn’t qualify as awkward but not entirely pleasant either. He gobbled a bit of onion with a mouthful of ham. With every minute that passed, he felt as if he had erred in some way. But he couldn’t think of anything.

“Do you think Prince Garin of Chroyane could’ve won against the Valyrian Freehold in any capacity?” Robb couldn’t help himself, he needed to fill the silence lest he went stir crazy.

“ _Any_ capacity?” Tywin sipped from a glass Robb hadn’t seen him set down with the rest of their meal. He wondered if it was beer, to pair with the cold-slice lunch.

“You said it was poor planning on his part but Garin was the last representation of Rhoynish military forces in Essos. He was their last chance.” Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar would lead the surviving Rhoynar to Westeros in ten thousand ships. She would take with her mostly women and children and the men who could not fight. It was the end of the city-states and one of the beginnings of Westeros.

“Suppose he captured the three dragons and their riders instead of killing them.” Robb nodded. “What happens if Valyrian Dragonriders burn his cities and his forces regardless?”

“Would they?”

“You’re reading the book, Lord Stark, you tell me.” Tywin popped an egg into his mouth.

“The wars had been going on for hundreds of years by his time. Many historians argue both sides were sick of the conflict and eager for an out. Three Valyrian Dragonriders helped Volantis destroy Sarhoy on the Summer Sea. The Rhoynish responded by uniting under Prince Garin, as we both know. He marched on Selhorys, Valysar, and Volon Therys and destroyed them. The Valyrians had the perfect excuse to destroy Garin and his gathered supporters and forever take the Rhoyne as their own, whatever means necessary.”

Tywin considered this, hand on his glass. Robb finally dared take a sip of his own and found a fruity ale. “The Valyrian Freehold had a growing monopoly on Essos with their eastward expansion, yes, but they were not yet all-powerful. The water wizards were a strong force, used correctly.”

“Strong enough to take on 300 dragons?” Robb scoffed.

 “Say he kept his armies in Chroyane instead of marching on Volantis to avenge Sarhoy. Say he captured the three dragonlords instead of killing them. Beldecar indicated the dragonlords riding two of them were women, though we have no indication of name or family. Had Garin sired a child upon either of them, he would name it heir apparent to his kingdom and part of the Valyrian empire as well.”

“ _That_ would have defeated the Valyrian Freehold?”

Tywin sipped his ale. “It would’ve given them pause. Without the sacking and destruction of the three Volantenes city-states, Prince Garin may have been able to negotiate his power for his own free city-state.”

“That would’ve meant assimilation. Too many of the Rhoynish would’ve been enslaved to pay for Garin’s empire.”

“And some would’ve been dragonlords. To some, the greatest victory is one made for your children.” Tywin’s gaze was weighty over the short distance. The pressure felt good, like a heavy hand on the back of Robb's neck when he couldn’t concentrate.

 “Instead they died in battle or fled their homeland on a fleet of ships.” Robb still didn’t know what he was doing, what he wanted from this, from Tywin.

“Which fate would you choose?” Tywin was waiting for him to slip, Robb could feel it.

“Death,” said Robb. He wondered what Tywin expected to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol rip Robb amirite  
> oh, and jon, what the fuck is HE doing?


	8. I Wish I Knew You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormund shares truths Jon isn't ready for. 
> 
> "I wish I knew you when I was young  
> We could've got so high  
> Now we're here it's been so long  
> Two strangers in the bright lights"  
> -The Revivalists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been gone so long. Real-life happens and fanfics take the sidelines. Upside, I have like 80k of this shit from NaNo so the wait for the next chapter won't be so long.

###  **Jon**

  
Jon woke up groggy from a bad night of tossing and turning. Ghost lay at the foot of his bed as he always did, keeping Jon’s feet still from kicking the blankets away. It was a valiant effort. Jon made no effort to move from his bed. Groggy and stiff as he was, he didn’t want to go beyond his bedroom. He wanted to sleep in far longer than allowed, wanted to spend all day in bed instead of doing anything at all. His door seemed like an impossible barrier. The only thing that kept him from cancelling his entire day was the hot twist to his stomach when he thought about seeing Tormund again. Exhausted, he found something small to eat for breakfast and brought it back to his haven, then spent a good amount of his day worrying about if he would go to the Huntsman. What he would wear if he did? What he would say? Then he worried what Tormund would think of him.

Towards midday, a short text message from Daenerys interrupted his thoughts. She asked about his day and his feelings preparing for that night. Jon scrambled to reply. Ghost licked crumbs off his empty plate, and Jon let him, hands no longer tangled in the scruff on his nape. Ghost was growing bigger and bolder by the day, and Jon didn’t care to correct him all the time. Busy with advisors all day, Dany had little time for herself and less for her friends. Last night had been a rare occurrence, and he loathed to waste her time. He still hung on her every word.

She mentioned the Winter Ball held in the Red Keep and her own attendance, even wanted to see him there. Sansa attended annually and so Jon would go most likely, but he couldn’t tell her that until he was sure. After a few messages back and forth, her replies tapered off. Jon tucked his phone into his pocket and hauled his hamper to the laundry room, something he had been meaning to do for days. He had precious little to wear in his closet. It was tempting to ask Sansa for her advice again, but he’d need a full closet for that. It would be easier to let her scrounge through his closet than doing it himself, easier to let her hold up options in her hands as he lounged on the bed. She might even offer to do his hair, to style small curls in around his ears like he wanted.

He knocked on Sansa’s bedroom doorframe but found it empty. He heard her moving down the stairs in a flurry and moved to follow her. From the top of the stairs, he heard Sansa tell Catelyn she was visiting Robert again with Joffrey and the Lannister car was already out front.

Robert’s condition had worsened, and they doubted he would last much longer, impeccable private care or not. Jon felt he should’ve gone with her, would’ve if she had only mentioned it beforehand. He wished to see Robert before he passed. The man had been an uncle to them, the closest of their father’s friends. Jon and his siblings had often played in the Baratheon home with Myrcella, Tommen and Joffrey. The once so boisterous man laying lifeless would break a part of him but Jon would hate himself if he never got to say goodbye. Ned still split his time between Robert’s bedside and the Red Keep and Jon missed his father too.

But Sansa had distanced from him for a few days, sometimes would go a whole day without saying a word. They should talk about the riot and what had happened but Jon never found a good time to sit down with her. Sansa didn’t want that yet, anyway, given how often she locked herself in the room. She would come around when she was ready, he trusted her in that.

His pocket buzzed. Dany wished him luck on his date. Their conversation didn’t pick up again after that. Dany turned her attention to more important matters, such as matters of state and the burgeoning Targaryen administration under her brother’s royal claim. He wondered if Viserys had picked suitable husbands for his little sister, as Dany had suggested. At seventeen, she was old enough to marry with permission from the head of her family, where Viserys stood. Jon wondered if Dany would have any say in the match, as she doubted.

Catelyn and Bran left the house mid-afternoon for a few hours of therapy. Catelyn said nothing about their plans afterward when she called up the stairs. “Be home and in bed by midnight, Jon.” She pushed Bran’s chair out to the garage and slammed the door behind them. They may return home before he left for the Huntsman or they may visit Robert in the hospital instead, Jon assumed. It seemed everyone was. Only Robb was more isolated, alone on Dragonstone. But as heir, Robb needed to know things Jon did not. Jon assumed Robb could be even more in the loop than Jon despite his physical distance from recent events, informed by Ned and Catelyn both.

Despite everything, the evening approached faster than Jon liked. He showered in preparation and ate a small dinner to quiet his stomach, had selected a light pair of trousers and a long sleeve for the evening, then pulled a fleece jacket on over it for the chill in the air. Then he packed a bowl and smoked while he rolled a joint for later. When he finished, he paced his room and puffed to keep his thoughts steady. Ghost’s eery red eyes watched him move back and forth in the small space. 

“Tormund wants to see me,” he said. Ghost’s ears perked up to listen, but he didn’t move from his spot on Jon’s bed. “Tormund wants to at least exchange items and chat a bit. He said he would order us drinks.” He smiled, shy and greedy. It felt good. He wanted to keep Tormund’s attention on him, if only for the distraction he brought, if only for a little while. Jon blushed, thinking of what he had done so, what he had said laden with lust. Jon hadn’t even blinked before falling asleep in the man’s arms, and then had slept through the night despite the strange room, the strange bed, a stranger’s arms. Tormund made him feel small and safe and Jon didn’t object to any of it, had daydreamed of the man’s bear grip around him during his idle moments and fallen asleep sniffing the sleeve of the man’s goddamn sweatshirt.

Maybe I’m too needy, thought Jon. It was what drove Dany away, Ygritte before that. People would come along and give him love and he did anything for it and them, even make a fool of himself. He wanted things to last forever. This time someone had less come along so much as Jon had fallen in Tormund’s lap, had chosen him. He was trying to make safer decisions now, trying to move slower, but he wanted to see Tormund again, and, if given a chance, he wanted to say his piece. He wouldn’t tolerate Tormund thinking of him as a child or treating him like a glass doll.   
The age difference between them did not appear in the morning as they slept but the man sure acted like it had. Tormund had seen how young he looked and liked it. Jon had seen up-close how much older Tormund had looked and sounded, acted, smelt. He had nestled snug against the man’s hip at the bar and seen the crow’s feet around Tormund’s eyes and knew he would go home with him. He would not apologise for his attraction and sure as Seven wasn’t keen on being shamed for it. If the truth upset Tormund when it had been so clear to Jon, if he could not move from it, Jon would move on from him.

He called a family car a few minutes ahead. He drove himself whenever possible, disliked not recognising the names or faces of the assigned drivers from the service his family trusted. They cycled out for confidentiality and Jon never familiarised himself with any of them. It turned his stomach, strangers driving him this way and that, knowing where he lived and where he frequented. Jon preferred the privacy the North provided, couldn’t wait for the winter holidays in Winterfell when the most commonplace transport would be horseback or sleigh regardless of status. Some Northmen even relied on sled dogs during the winter, as did some wildling clans, but mostly commonfolk. It looked difficult, commanding so many animals, but exhilarating. 

It was cold and cloudy when the car pulled around to the front of the empty Stark house. Ghost followed him downstairs. The direwolf licked at his fingers and face when he sat down to tie on his boots near the door. He sensed Jon was leaving and refused to be left behind. They hadn’t even gone out on a run, and Ghost whined to go out more and more as the weather changed and winter called deep into his bones. He was growing larger and large with each day and ate his weight and more. Jon barely noticed his growth during the day-to-day until he’d blink and remember the puppy that used to follow around behind his heels. He would look down at the lanky beast staring back at him. At two years, Ghost stood almost at Jon’s waist. And he was not yet fully grown. It showed in the length of his limbs, the size of his feet, the handfuls of skin left to fill and flesh out at his haunches and the scruff of his neck. They did not know the growth rate of direwolves, rare as they were. Jon feared for the appetite and size of the litter when the canids reached their full potential in a few years’ time, spoilt on the best meats and treats the Stark family could afford.

When Shaggydog grew too large and vicious for most to command, the size of a grown dog and heavier by the day, he bit Gage on the arm. He learned he was frightening enough to make most grown men cower and took a chunk out of Mikken’s thigh. Maester Luwin chained the yearling in the stables until he could be dealt with. When the family arrived in Winterfell for the summer, Ned instead released Shaggydog in the godswood with all his littermates. Just as spending the whole summer together as a family would help he and his siblings heal, Ned hoped the socialisation and play in the natural forest would do the wolves all good, as he had told Jon. It had been a relief not to see Shaggydog skulking around each day, though they still heard him howling in the night for Rickon, joined by his brothers and sisters in a full chorus. Jon remembered Catelyn lamenting the danger of owning direwolves as pets, of trusting wild animals to live in their home with them. He remembered Maester Luwin claiming they needed to train or chain the beasts before they savaged someone, maybe even one of the family. Two weeks later when the family returned south for the school year, they left Shaggydog and Summer behind. Bran had cried for three days. That was back when his meds fucked with his moods but Jon, holding then year-old and dog-sized Ghost to his chest, had always wanted to cry with him. He couldn’t imagine not having Ghost by his side most days and was thankful Ned often left the albino behind, though he didn’t know why. Grey Wind and Lady were the best behaved, sure, but Ghost was the most striking, the most fearsome. Ghost and Grey Wind would make a more intimidating duo, as Lady was on the smaller side, yet Ned never called for Jon’s beast to his side.

“Tomorrow.” Jon pushed his fingers into the thick fur of Ghost’s neck. “Tomorrow, we’ll run all over Visenya’s Hill. The weather should be good for it.” He kissed Ghost’s furry forehead and stood. Depending on how the night went, he’d either need the pick-me-up or he’d have energy and endorphins to burn. Jon donned an overcoat then edged his way out the door, mindful of the whining, wet nose trying to nudge out behind him.

His driver greeted him with a flat, respectful look and an open door to a sleek, modern car. The Stark direwolf stencilled on the side may call attention, but Jon doubted Tormund would wait outside, doubted the man cared who his family was. The Starks had money, yes, had coffers that ran deep from thousands of years of lording over the North, but none of it was Jon’s. None of it would ever be Jon’s. His name revealed his bastard title from the start and even thick-headed wildlings recognised that, in this age. Tormund shouldn’t care. And Jon felt safer with someone, anyone, knowing where he was and vaguely what he was doing.

Jon wished it would snow, if only to slow the city to a standstill. The south couldn’t handle snow, didn’t know what to do with it. Most southern cities had no place to pile it once they even ploughed their streets. School and business would cancel. Everyone could enjoy a few days off. Maybe Ned Stark would sleep in his own house, in his own bed, sup with his family, for the first time in weeks, and Jon would get to see him, talk to him. He would bring Grey Wind and Lady home with him, and they would play with Ghost and Nymeria and Summer on the rolling grounds as they once did when they were just pups and Ned had first brought them home, a gift from Benjen to make the children laugh and Catelyn rave. Jon would stand on back balcony with his father and sip tea and watch the snow fall around them.

The streets of Kings Landing passed in a blink. The Stark car pulled up to the Huntsman in almost record time. His drivers were always adept and professional, he would give them that. They never spoke unless spoken to and never seemed interested in his business. Jon would suppose not, considering their livelihoods depended on strict confidentiality.

“Don’t wait for me. I’ll call another car,” he said. His nondescript driver nodded. Jon stepped out with the grey sweatshirt tucked under his arm and closed the car door behind him, his nerves buzzing. Tormund was no doubt across the parking lot and just inside the pub, tucked into a booth in the back where they could talk without being interrupted. The car pulled away from Jon’s back, leaving him bared to the world at all sides. It was time to face this reckoning. He forced his legs to move, first one and then the other. A small part inside of him danced like an anxious rabbit, kicking and squealing for release from its trap in his ribcage. That fearful part of him wanted to turn around and run home. It believed this was for naught. Tormund could still be angry, still upset. But Jon ached at the idea, the opportunity, to see him again.

He gave a sweet smile to familiar faces near the door before slipping through without a word. The modest pub was warm and cosy compared to chill at his back. He knew Brienne would be in the back, if she was here at all, and prayed no one saw or recognised him tonight. He kept his outfit plain and unassuming, but Old Gods save him if Brienne spotted him with Tormund, who couldn’t make a pass for unassuming for his life, and it made it back to his parents.

He had few excuses for meeting strange, older men at bars on a weekend, and even fewer that stood their ground after Ned had walked in on him and a study date decidedly _not_ studying. He hadn’t retracted his offer to Jon’s _friend_ for dinner, however, which Jon took as a good sign. Later, he had sat on the edge of Jon’s bed and tucked him in and asked him if knew what he wanted, said it was okay if he didn’t know, said almost the same words of love and support he had given Robb. It was hard to hear directed at him in such close quarters, made him squirm beneath his sheets and he couldn’t meet his own father’s eyes. But it was better, more private, than hearing it all from the side lines, Robb crying and angry as if his parents had sent Theon away on purpose, tripping over his words and shaking as if they wouldn’t love him forever no matter who he was, as if they didn’t already have some ideas, as if they cared at all.

The Huntsman wasn’t crowded. There were a few people lingering by the door, avoiding the embrace of the cold night. People drank in pockets at the bar and tables. It was easy to search across the room for Tormund. He had thought, given the man’s enthusiasm on the phone the night before and Dany’s reassurances that morning, Tormund would have beaten him here with ease. He was not disappointed.   
Tormund stood at the bar in a large grey coat, impossible to miss. He lacked the furs and pelts he had the first time Jon had laid eyes on him when he had enraptured Jon before words, but he took up as much space as he did then, exuded as much energy as he wanted in such a quiet place. Without his great furs, Tormund reserved space for two at the bar as he waited, back turned to the door. Hiding behind the small parting crowd, Jon took the time to stare unabashed, to feast his eyes before stepping forward and being spotted, scrutinised.

Tormund looked so southern now it was almost scary, compared to his wilding appearance. Now he was a man of the south, here to do business by the shine of his dapper business shoes. If they had been strangers still, such a man would’ve interested Jon, curious about his drink of choice and why he wore his red hair loose. Instead, his heart pounded on his chest, taken by such a change from the Tormund he recognised and liked. He wanted to slip his hands into the space of Tormund’s thick jacket cuffs and wriggle his fingers as far as they would go up the man's arm and towards the heat of his body. He wanted Tormund to smother him into the lapels, draw him close to his chest and squeeze him, shove Jon’s face into the space underneath the man’s armpit until he couldn’t breathe anything but the scent of him. It would smell just like the sweatshirt tucked under Jon’s arm. He had thought about it at least twice with his hand on his dick. More than anything, however, Jon missed the scrape of the man’s beard on his chin as they kissed, the tickle on his neck when Tormund went after his ears.

Tormund spotted him standing between other patrons and raised a hand to call him, as if they hadn’t already met each other’s eyes, as if it wasn’t obvious Jon had stopped to stare. Jon stepped forward, knowing if he stood still any longer he would never build the nerve to speak to the man, to say what he wanted and make peace with the outcome.

“You came.” Tormund smiled when he stepped in close.

“Yeah, sorry I’m late,” said Jon.

“You’re not.” Tormund slid a pint his way. “I’m early.”

“Are there any booths?” Jon took a sip, keeping his eyes off Tormund for his own sake. Tormund had been early for him. Dany would howl, if he told her.

“I think so.” Tormund nudged him in the right direction, the heat of his hand touching at the small of Jon’s back. Jon led the way around the corner and out of direct sight of the bar. Familiar territory aside, he didn’t want people at the Huntsman knowing his business. Tormund helped him take off his coat and Jon braced against the urge to help him with his big sleeves. They sat down across from each other. Jon couldn’t avoid those blue eyes any longer.  
Tormund had the same crow’s feet Jon remembered, the same smile lines around his mouth. But he had trimmed and combed his beard and moustache to neatness, and his hair lay tamed too. Jon drank in the dark cardigan Tormund wore, the cufflinks on his shirt against his wrists and the two rings Jon spotted on his thick fingers. It was so different from what Jon remembered, to what he knew about the man.

“I almost didn’t recognise you,” said Tormund. He had his big hands wrapped around his own pint, his fingers twitchy against the glass, but used one to gesture to Jon’s face. Jon had pulled his hair back and kept his glasses, so he almost couldn’t blame the man for his confusion. At least Jon looked like the same man.

“I could say the same to you. No furs this time?” Jon drank. When he had tangled his fingers through Tormund’s hair that night, the mass of it had been thick and rough and untamed like his beard. It was disappointing to see it so tidy, as handsome as it was. He wore his disappointment plainly but held against saying anything more. He was trying to keep the tone light between them.

Tormund smiled and Jon’s chest ached. “No. In the south, I wear those for ceremony only. Now there’s different business to be done.” Jon glanced from Tormund’s knuckles to the man’s eyes, blue and earnest. “I’m glad you reached out-”

“Oh Gods, I almost forgot!” Jon jerked in his seat and placed Tormund’s sweatshirt on the table, pushing it in his direction. “Sorry for stealing it from you.”

“It’s fine.” Tormund traded him for his own red sweater, folded and wrapped in twine from laundering. He placed his hand over Jon’s on the clean cable knit pattern. “I- wanted to apologise to you for last weekend.”

Jon only blinked. Tormund took his chance to plough forward. “It was all a big misunderstanding, and I overreacted and you withstood the worst of it. I’m sorry for upsetting you and pushing you away in the morning.” His fingers were rough were they touched Jon’s knuckles, the inside of his wrist. “It was undue and unkind. I’m glad I met you; I consider our night together a gift.”

His heart raced. Tormund could probably feel it in his wrist. It pumped faster as Tormund’s fingers pressed and adventured. “I’m not a child. I’m of-age and capable of consenting, and making stupid mistakes, as you can see.” Tormund winced and Jon didn’t like how guilt pinched his own gut. His anger boiled hotter. “So we both know Ygritte. Is that why you kicked me out?” Jon wanted to pull both of his hands into his lap. Tormund wasn’t blind. He could see how young Jon could be, could see the truth in bringing him home. “Did she tell you everything? Because I stopped talking to her last year. We never see each other anymore.”

“She didn’t tell me much, no. Just enough. But she confirmed how old you were, _who_ you were. Again, I’m sorry, but I lied to you, Jon Snow, for my safety. I’m not in the south to visit family. I’m here for my clan, with the leaders of the other wildling clans, to attend a council of the Freefolk for new rights under the Targaryen administration. We are working against the _Starks_ and those who swear loyalty to them in the North, for the sake of our people.”

“Wait, slow down. Against the Starks?” Jon pulled his hand from underneath Tormund’s. The man had the sense not to grab it back.

“A council of the Freefolk. Our leaders meet with the Targaryen Boy-King.”

“Okay,” said Jon. His pulse hammered in his throat. “What do you think this has to do with me?” Jon watched the older man swallow, could see the knob in his throat bob.

“The Warden in the North always refused to listen to us in the past-”

“Again, I ask, what does this have to do with me?” Jon placed both his hands on his glass and squeezed.

“Your father-”

“Has a trueborn son to inherit his lands and his title, along with three other trueborn children with whom to place the future of his noble house.” Jon crossed his arms across this chest. His heart was attempting to burst through his ribs. In his trouser pocket, his phone buzzed twice. He prayed it was Dany. “I’m a bastard. Ned Stark doesn’t involve me in the family business and I do not understand what he’s doing on Aegon’s Hill, least of all what it his business has to do your wildling clan. I want no part of it. If that’s why you drove me away, of all things-” 

“That’s not what I meant. Please, listen.” Jon paused. Tormund worried at his pint glass with nothing better to hold. “The Starks have been on both sides of this conflict, that’s why it’s so messy. A northern bastard is one thing, but I thought- I feared I was being tricked, taken advantage of.”

“You? Taken advantage of?” Jon couldn’t help but scoff. “You’re a grown man with three stones on me. I’m the ‘underage’ one, the child. You called me boy, you got off on it, safeword or not, so you can’t claim you didn’t fucking like it, want it.” _Want me._ “And then you kick me out for it? I’m the victim here.”

“And me the criminal. I was wrong, but I thought I had fucked everything.” Tormund scowled down at the table. “Not just for me and you but all Freefolk, for my family beyond the wall waiting for liberation. A fantasy is one thing, a good quick fuck. All it takes is one ‘savage wildling rapes House Stark’ headline to set my people back 240 years.” Tormund pushed his half-empty glass away, brow pulled tight.

“That’s outrageous, it doesn’t happen. You think my own fucking father would send me to what? Fuck you? _Trick you_ into fucking me?” Jon remembered the other bar patrons and lowered his voice, leaned back against his seat again. There were political games and dishonest deals, for sure, Jon heard whispers of them from their family and family friends. There were always lesser lords who spoke freely in his father’s presence, wanting their voice to be the one in the Warden’s ear, and Jon would listen to them rant and rave because they never cared about the bastard son that hung around in Robb’s shadow. But his father would never allow such an act to happen for his own political gain, involving children-as-bait no less. If it was best for the North, if it’s what the northern people needed, his father would agree to new policies and land rights. “You’d have to father a bastard to start a scandal, not fuck one.”

“It happens. I’ve heard of southern scandals, of Freefolk in the south targeted and assaulted for their dress, their speak, the rights they advocate for despite the ‘tolerance of the south.’ Gods, I’ve heard of your own lords caught in ‘unsavoury acts’ and their honour slighted for the entire world to see. I knew they could use you to trick me, to corner and kill me if they wanted, to slander my cause and my people, and set us back even further.”

“This is so ridiculous. Who is ‘they’? Why are they so motivated to ruin your life?” Jon knew there were southerners and notherners alike who disliked the Wildlings, who never wanted to see them or acknowledge their existence in the realm. His family dealt with Kings-Beyond-the-Wall and raiders alike, and some of their noble houses dealt business with them too. But this, this was outrageous.

“Our adversaries. People would see us dead over our demand for rights. There have been two attempts on my life in my trips below the Wall, and twice as many manhunts for my hide. But fuck my life, it’s my people they want to see erased.”

“Stop, just stop! Gods, this is fucking crazy.” Jon pressed his hands to his eyes. He wanted to leave now, he should. Attempts on anyone’s life was bad news, and nothing he wanted a part of. He should thank Tormund for a drink. He should put a few notes down for the tab and walk out. It was all too much, Tormund was paranoid and dangerous. But he couldn’t help but wonder. Was there some great conspiracy against wildlings? Ygritte had spoken on the history of the Freefolk and their way of life, but beyond general injustices done unto the general poor, she claimed no sort of deliberate prejudice against her. Not to Jon, at least. She was in the South for schooling, same as he, and she preferred it in the North, same as he. She called him stupid and southern and people noticed her when she spoke in that wildling way of hers but no one had ever bothered her, he thought. Had she ever gotten hurt for it? Had her brother invited her into something dangerous? “Just- start over. Start from the beginning. What’s going on with the Wildlings? Who’s against you? And why do you assume I, my family, have a part of it?”

“To start from the beginning would return to Bran the Builder, lad. The lands beyond the wall belong to no one, not claimed and tilled by one family or clan, by one people. We kill and gather what we need to survive, move and migrate with the herds and the sun and the spirits, as was meant to be. We read the bones and forest stones set in patterns even the Crows cannot read or recognise. The Great Wall and the Gift by Brandon the Builder punished us and our way of life, cut us off from migration routes and hunting grounds, burials and rock tombs, lakes and river crossings. We write our stories into the world, into the animals we hunt and the skins we clothe our children. As we lost the sites, we lost parts of ourselves just as we had lost brothers and sisters, whole tribes when Brandon claimed the land.”

“I don’t need a spirtual history lesson. The Wall kept your people safe from the Targaryen conquest. The North kneeled to save itself, you did not kneel,” said Jon.

“Listen,” said Tormund. He sounded so desperate and Jon’s stomach turned. “We both know the Crown leaves the North to govern itself as it pleases beneath the Warden of the North, so long as the Warden kneels to the King’s authority and raises armies when asked. There are sites below the Wall that belong to us, land that could feed our children, fatten our stock. The Gift itself falls to rot and ruin and yet our people starve more and more each winter.”

“The High Houses and the Targaryen Crown itself will not accept wildlings below the Wall, least of all without a Lord Paramount to liege them,” said Jon.

“And so we came forward, some ten years ago, for official negotiations with your father and his small council in Last Hearth to claim the Gift for fealty to the Starks. We tried it the southern way, laid our historical claim on the land and presented our supporters. They denied us everything, told us to go hungry. It happened again and each year, they would hear us and our cause out of courtesy only to turn us away.”

“You’re lying.” Jon pushed his pint and his body forward over the table. “My father is a kind man, a just man. He’ll never let wildlings claim land below the Wall because it doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the Night’s Watch. And what of the northern Mountain Clans? The Wulls, the First Flints and the Norreys know your kind. They won’t stand for you taking the Gift when they live closest to it. Should it not be theirs to claim, if anyone? The northern lords would rise against you.”

The big man leaned in over the table, beseeching. Jon couldn’t help but lean away, not so eager for the big secret. “Four years ago, a Ranger of the Watch stepped forward to help us. He brought the support of the Mountain Clans and the Rangers too. Benjen-”

“Wait.” Jon could take a breath. His arms fell to the table. “You knew Uncle Benjen?”

“Shit, of course. I’m sorry. Were you close?” Tormund reached out to touch his hand, but Jon pulled away. “Are you sick? You look pale.”

“No,” said Jon. “Keep going.”

Tormund shook his head and cursed. “I’m sorry, lad, it slipped my mind that he would be your-”

“I said keep going.” Jon leaned forward. “Please.”

Tormund nodded once and sipped his drink. “Benjen Stark was the only Northerner who gave a damn, at least the only Stark. He wanted to walk our lands, further than his ranging would afford him. We let him. He saw our plight and convinced your father of many things for our people and our cause. The next negotiations looked hopeful, a few Mountain Clans stepped forward in official support, knew the lands we wished to claim and the slow ruin of them. Then… Benjen was-”

“He died,” said Jon.

“Murdered, they thought. And they said a wildling did it.” Tormund took another drink.

“It was a fucking accident,” said Jon, “my father made damn sure of that much.” He couldn’t remember this time last year other than key moments and memories, and the day it happened. He waited in Winterfell as the snow fell with his family, worrying about ice on the roads and the ice storm making it way south. “They shouldn’t have driven a car. Benjen fucking knew that and he did it anyway.” Why did he do it? Was he rushing to get home to them? “Car tires can’t handle the winter, and it was storming. Sled or sleigh is the only way.” A constant mantra from his youth, a sweet melody from a holiday song that used to play. Everyone knew the rules of winter.

“They never should’ve been out there. Benjen was the one and only Stark to stand with us. He stood up to your father, convinced him of many things for our people and our cause, brought support from the Castle Black and northern houses. He was a good man. Too good for even his name to protect him. We were so close, had a few smalls victories under our belt, had a decent chance of convincing your father to advocate our cause in King’s Landing. We were right in the middle of our most divided negotiations yet. Then it all came to a standstill. Benjen Stark and the young boy lay dead. They claimed a wildling did it because we were below the wall for the first time in decades.”

“You think someone murdered my Uncle Benjen, and it’s part of a conspiracy against your wildling cause. And you thought I was involved because… tricking you into having sex with me would incriminate you.”

“It’s fucking crazy,” said Tormund. “I know I was wrong about you, lad. I’m sorry.” He reached out and for the first time Jon let him join their hands, let him hold Jon’s between his own. “But I am not wrong in this: there’s a storm in the North, and your family is a part of it.” Jon tugged his hand but Tormund held fast, earning a glare and sending a firm look Jon’s way in return. “Someone killed your uncle a year ago for helping us, you must see that.”

“Stop saying that. Gods!” Jon jerked his hand back. “You’re insisting my uncle was murdered when I thought you just wanted to apologise and move on like a decent, normal person.”

“I like you well enough, but I can’t move on from this. This is my life, Jon Snow. With Benjen gone, we lost all our progress, most gave up hope. But we accepted the Prince’s offer to come south and meet during Fall Parliament, to let our King speak our terms to your electors and the high houses and to negotiate annexation,” said Tormund. “The King-Beyond-the-Wall is cunning. He will kneel to the Beggar-King to claim our true freedom, if that’s what it takes.” 

“Do you hear yourself? The _Freefolk_ are free. You kneel to no one. Your sister taught me that.” He was sure of himself until he looked up from his coat buttons and saw Tormund’s eyes, stormy and locked to his own.

“Free in spirit. We crave full freedom,” said Tormund. “Free to not be illegal in lands we once lived. To go and do as we wish, as any man wants for himself and his family. The Targaryen Prince is a fool, but he needs support from wherever he can get it. 50 leagues of land south of the Wall is a small price for a King to pay for an oath of fealty, one your own father and the Crowned Stag rejected for years before Benjen changed his mind. One he turned away from after Benjen died.”

Jon couldn’t think of anything to say. The pint he had been nursing wasn’t helping. His stomach turned nonstop. What would his father say if he heard this? “This is crazy.” It wasn’t something a normal person would consider. Yet Tormund said it with such conviction. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“I thought they involved you. I thought they were getting crafty, getting close to Mance, I thought I had fucked up, put people in danger. It scared the shit out of me and I took it out on you.”

“Just give me a minute.” Jon put his face in his hands and pressed stars into his eyes. His head spun. Tormund sighed and Jon heard him take a drink and set his pint back down.

“Do you want another? And a water, maybe?”

Jon nodded, face still pressed to his hands. Tormund left and approached the bar. Jon was tempted to lay his face to the table but resisted, not knowing what might be on it. The Huntsman was clean, but he wasn’t stupid. After a moment of deep breaths, he slapped his hands to his cheeks. It didn’t help him regain his composure and when Tormund returned, the man frowned at the sight of him.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Tormund pushed a glass of water and a pint across the table.

Jon took a long drink of both. He would need it. “Yes. Tell me what my Uncle was trying to achieve. When did you meet him? How well did you know him?”

“The King-Beyond-the-Wall knew Benjen better than I. I only met the crow after he travelled beyond the Wall, Mance met him in Last Hearth. He had seen some of our culture beyond the Wall during his time as a Ranger and believed our claims, offered an alliance if we would take him further beyond the Wall. He brought in a few other crows too, swore them to secrecy beyond the Black I heard. Mance liked him a lot, saw a likeness in him, I think. They used to ride beside each other and speak in tongues, traded riddles and tried to outsmart one another. Mance came to me once or twice, asking for Freefolk wordplay that would truly stump the man.”

Jon almost couldn’t imagine it. But Benjen had taken him to the Wall before, had stood him atop the ice and held him steady against the wind. Benjen loved the Wall and the land beyond it, had always sung songs of wildling shieldmaidens and told stories of his daring and dangerous adventures ranging. Jon had been young then, yes, but the fear he felt hearing stories at Benjen’s adventures had been justified. Beyond the wall animals and forces unknown to man claimed rightful dominion of the land, would swallow you whole like the snowstorms in the Lands of Always Winter. Jon had shivered and cried a little at night, fearful of the tales of ghosts and undead in the castle even curled next to his uncle’s side as he was, but he still returned to the top of the wall again the next day. He wanted to be a Ranger once. Then he grew up and realised they considered it a punishment for most.

“And he helped you how?”

“Advocated for us. You’d be amazed what change you can achieve raising your voice in the right rooms. And Benjen had access to a lot of the right rooms, as a respected Ranger, the son of a noble house, and the younger brother to a Lord Paramount. He often helped your father with northern business and relations with the Watch and wanted to extend that business and relations to the Freefolk. He had a big heart and couldn’t stand to see us silenced.”

Jon sighed. “That sounds like him.”

“He was bringing your father around, had convinced him to go ranging beyond the wall with Mance and Benjen, only Mance and Benjen. It was to a be a peace mission, to show your father we would not betray him, would not raid his people below the Wall when winter came and food grew scarce. We have honour, we would respect our vows, punish our own who did not. But since last year, we have made little progress; our efforts have stalled because of your family and loyal northern supporters. The Crowned Stag-”

“Robert Baratheon, Lord Protector the Realm,” interrupted Jon.

“Robert Baratheon lays dying, and the Beggar-King aims to reclaim Targaryen authority over the realm. This transition is our best chance to get a foot in the door with no need for Lord Stark, our best chance for our King-Beyond-the-Wall to claim land to keep us alive. So we came south and attended Fall Parliament and advocated for our sovereign claims on the land as an official party: the Council of the Freefolk. You can understand how dangerous this is for me, making time for personal visits with a Northern bastard in King’s Landing.”

Jon could. If caught below the Wall by city guards, official business or not, Tormund risked being sent back Beyond-the-Wall, earless. Caught so far in the south, however, Tormund would surely report to the Castle Black for a lifelong oath. Or put to the sword, if his word was true. In context, the man’s paranoia didn’t sound so outlandish, even if Benjen wasn’t _murdered_. It would be difficult not to be paranoid for secrets and slipups at any point with a perpetual bounty on your head.

“And then, I find out he’s Ned Stark’s bastard. Pure, dangerous irony.”

“Gods, you’re fighting against my Dad.” Jon put his hands over his face again. It was all too much. “And you knew Uncle Benjen. And then we-” he was ready to be sick, his stomach turning with anxiety.

“You look ready to be sick, lad.”

“I said I’m fucking fine.”

“And I say you’re a liar,” said Tormund. “Sit back and take your hands from your face, lad. Breathe for a moment.” Jon did, eyes locked on his glass. After a minute, he took a sip. “I’m sorry this happened. This shouldn’t have involved you.”

“Is that what you’re trying to do?”

“What?”

“Are you trying to involve me? In a plot against my Dad? Against the North?”

Tormund laughed. Jon didn’t.

“I thought about it.” Tormund drew shapes in the condensation of his glass. “Ygritte talked me out of it.”

“Good.” said Jon. He’d have to apologise to her, he thought. More than he anticipated, too. The real story was worse than he expected.

“Mostly.”

“I’m not helping you. This is a whole mess and I think it’s best I stay out of it.”

“Just consider it. Please, talk to your father-”

“And say what? I fucked a wildling last week and he said you’re not being fair politically?”

“Ask him about his younger brother and-”

“My little brother died with Benjen, you know.” Jon pulled on his coat. “I’m sorry their deaths _inconvenienced_ you and your cause, but I will not upset my family again.”

“Wait, Jon, please, that’s not what I-”

“I think we’re done here, Tormund.” He picked up his sweater and stood, already dialling the car service.

“Jon-” Tormund stood.

“Goodbye, Tormund. For both our sakes, please don’t contact me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got drunk and finally edited this chapter for posting. Go me. Lots more to come. As I said, I have a lot written for this universe. I'm cutting this fic off after fall semester, and the sequel will pick up after that. I understand how George can get lost in details and subplots for years on end, I really do, but I'm trying to stay focused. 
> 
> Unfortunately, I'm constantly thinking about a Jaime-based Lannister sidefic, a prequel about Ned and Robert, AND obviously the sequel including new Dany POV and Viserys and their entourage. I hope you're interested in some of that!


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